


Krosis

by hrtiu



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Identity Issues, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hrtiu/pseuds/hrtiu
Summary: “Ysmir’s beard, Harbinger, is that an Amulet of Mara? What could the Dragonborn and Harbinger of the Companions possibly be doing in a tavern with an Amulet of Mara?” Vilkas hissed, now just as concerned as she that they not be overheard.Anger glinted in the Harbinger’s eyes, and she glared up at Vilkas defiantly, having thrown off her embarrassment for the moment.“I may not be your master, Vilkas, but neither are you mine. It’s not of your business why I am here. I might ask you how you did not recognize your own Harbinger?”Vilkas sputtered.“I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen your face, Harbinger.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay I am finally waiting to post a story until the entire story is complete! I will post a chapter every other day. I had so much fun writing this story, I hope you like it! Reviews are much appreciated, and I try to respond to every comment.

Vilkas pulled his cloak tighter around him as he trudged through the fluttering snowflakes towards the Bannered Mare. Nords may pride themselves on their resistance to cold, but that didn’t make freezing temperatures _pleasant_. The weather was making Vilkas regret his short trip to the inn, especially considering he could get cheaper and greater volumes of drink back at Jorrvaskr, but he had decided he needed a break from the Companions, and he was sticking to it. Jorrvaskr would always be home, and the Companions always his shield-siblings, but sometimes their raucous gatherings were a little too much for him. Sometimes he just needed some time to himself.

 

Vilkas pushed the heavy door to the inn open and shut it closed behind him as quickly as possible, not wanting to let too much of the weather in with him. Hulda smiled at him and sent him a welcoming greeting from behind the bar, and by the time he reached her she’d already poured him his drink.

 

“Thanks, Hulda.”

 

Hulda nodded.

 

“Of course. Nice to see you again, Vilkas.”

 

Hulda didn’t say any more, familiar as she was with her guest and the moods that typically brought him through her doors. Vilkas took his drink to his favorite table at the back corner of the inn, thanking Shor that no one had taken his customary seat.

 

Two drinks in, and no one had bothered him. Vilkas called that a good night. He was contemplating whether he should start on a new drink or head on home when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

 

“Ffff...Vvvvvilkas of the _Companions_ ,” a harsh, feminine voice slurred with no small amount of bitterness.

 

Vilkas looked behind his shoulder and immediately recognized the strawberry-blond woman in heavy steel armor behind him. It was Uthgerd, supposedly “the Unbroken.” She’d killed a new blood in a spar, and somehow expected the Companions to just let it pass. Vilkas turned back to his empty tankard, deciding he would take that next drink after all. He’d liked Aksel. Vilkas had truly believed the young, idealistic Nord would have a long, glorious future with the Companions, but instead this woman’s carelessness sent him to an early grave.

 

“Don’t ignore me!” Uthgerd yelled, shoving weakly into his back.

 

With a sigh, Vilkas moved his seat around to face Uthgerd, worrying that if she felt he was disregarding her, the situation might escalate. Usually Uthgerd avoided the Companions, the shame and embarrassment of her accident motivating her to keep a wide berth, so she must have been deep in her cups to be confronting Vilkas. Facing her did seem to placate the woman, and a goofy smile rose to her lips.

 

“Now _that’s_ more like it,” she said. “You’re one of the _honorable_ Companions, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell us a story? Share with everyone your _exc-schiting adventures_.”

 

Uthgerd’s loud proclamations had attracted a good amount of attention, and Vilkas could see more than a few pairs of eyes around the inn on him. He’d come here to avoid exactly this kind of situation, but Vilkas supposed he should count himself lucky for the good hour of peace and solitude he’d already enjoyed. He’d known it would have to end eventually.

 

“Yeah, Vilkas. We haven’t heard any new exploits from the Companions for a while now!” Sigurd shouted from his seat by the fire. “Why don’t you tell us a fresh one?”

 

“If it’s good enough, I’ll even write a song about it,” Mikael chimed in.

 

A quick story might be enough to satisfy the group, though they had already heard most of his old standbys. Vilkas thought about his latest mission, about the kind of tale it would tell. He had been with the Dragonborn, and the assignment had actually been unrelated to the Companions, but any work he did assisting the Harbinger Vilkas filed in his brain under “Companions business.”

 

It had been gritty, nasty work. They’d gone to rescue a farmer’s daughter from a group of necromancers holed up in a cave somewhere in the Pale. The daughter was already dead—twice dead after they’d dispatched of her reanimated corpse—but they could at least tell the farmer that they’d sent the necromancers to Oblivion where they couldn’t do any more harm.

 

Vilkas had always disliked mages. One might think that a man who used to transform into a wolf on a regular basis wouldn’t be squeamish about the darker aspects of the mystic arts, but even Vilkas had things that scared him. He didn’t remember much from the time before Jergen had found them, when he and Farkas had been held captive by a group of the rogue necromancers, but the experiences of his youth had built in an automatic response of fear and disgust at anything related to the art of summoning the undead.

 

Helping the Harbinger exterminate the necromancers had been necessary, and Vilkas wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done, but neither did he feel great honor or excitement in the task. It had mostly just made him feel sick. And it didn’t help that it was hard to feel like the Harbinger had even needed him there.

 

She was really something else. The Harbinger carried two short swords and an indomitable spirit, and she swept through the cave like some goddess of wrath and vengeance. And not the beautiful, fiersome kind the bards liked to sing about. The cold, merciless kind you didn’t really want to watch but couldn’t quite look away from.

 

Unbidden, the memory of the Harbinger knocking the head necromancer to the ground, placing her two swords at his neck, then removing his head from his shoulders in one smooth motion returned to Vilkas’ mind. He shuddered. In his mind’s eye, the mask she always wore, with its smoothly-carved, solemn features, watched the execution in cool passivity. Vilkas wouldn’t be surprised if that mask made an appearance in the darker dreams that haunted his sleep.

 

No, there was no shame in the work he and the Harbinger had done. But it wasn’t the kind of story to share around the hearthfire either.

 

“No good stories to tell tonight. Sorry,” Vilkas said to the waiting crowd.

 

Uthgerd snorted in derision, moving closer to Vilkas and invading his personal space.

 

“Just as I’d thought,” she scoffed. “The Companions are all… are all _talk_ . How long will they rest on their legashy, with no one willing to actually… actually _do_ anything?”

 

Vilkas’s eyes flashed, and he felt the fire in him burning. He really shouldn’t let this drunken excuse for a warrior bait him, but he had his limits. His temper had tamed somewhat since he’d freed himself from the beast blood, but a good portion of Vilkas’s fire was his own to claim, and couldn’t be attributed to the beast alone.

 

Recognizing the danger in Vilkas’s eyes, Mikael stepped towards Uthgerd and placed soothing hands on her shoulders.

 

“Come on, Uth. Let’s call it a night, eh?”

 

Uthgerd shrugged off the bard’s hands belligerently, but backed off. She turned and staggered towards the door, muttering drunkenly under her breath.

 

Hulda made her way over to Vilkas’s table with a full tankard in hand, accurately predicting her customer’s needs. Vilkas took the drink with a grateful nod and turned his chair back towards the table, hoping that the other patrons of the inn would take the hint and leave him in peace.

 

Halfway through his drink, the front door opened again, letting a frigid gust of wind into the warm inn that reached all the way to the back of the room where Vilkas sat. He looked up from his drink, worried that Uthgerd may have returned to settle her imagined grievances with him, but the newcomer didn’t look like Uthgerd.

 

As soon as he realized the woman walking into the Bannered Mare wasn’t Uthgerd, Vilkas should have just returned to his drink, but something held him back. He squinted his slightly intoxicated eyes at the woman, trying to put his finger on what it was about her that kept his attention, but he couldn’t find anything of interest. He hadn’t seen her around Whiterun before. She wasn’t a Nord—at least not fully. She looked probably Imperial, but she had ambiguous enough features that he couldn’t be sure. She was of average height, average age (maybe a couple of years younger than Vilkas), and average beauty. And yet…

 

The woman walked uncertainly up to the bar, purchasing a drink from Hulda before wandering off towards the fire. Vilkas rolled his eyes as Mikael noticed the young woman and sauntered over to where she stood by the fire. Whoever the woman was, he wished her luck.

 

Vilkas finished his drink quickly and got to his feet, the heavy weight in his head telling him it was time to go home. He trudged towards the door, already dreading the bitter cold outside and deliberately ignoring the unfamiliar woman. Thus, he did not notice when the woman rose from her seat by the bench and backed away from Mikael, running right into Vilkas.

 

“Excuse me,” Vilkas grunted, bending over to help the woman back to her feet.

 

“I am so sorry-” the woman started, her words halting abruptly as soon as she looked up and locked eyes with Vilkas.

 

She was frozen, and seemingly terrified? Vilkas couldn’t imagine why she might be afraid of him unless… Did she somehow know he was a werewolf? Vilkas blinked dumbly at her, his mind racing to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

 

“Are you… alright?” he asked.

 

The woman’s expression cleared, and her gaze sharpened. Those eyes… they were so much more intense than the soft features that surrounded them. They looked like they belonged to a woman much older than this person, who couldn’t have seen more than thirty summers. Something about those eyes felt both extraordinary and… familiar.

 

“Vilkas? You don’t recognize me?” the woman said, her voice low as if to avoid eavesdroppers.

 

The voice, the eyes, the cold intensity—suddenly it all clicked.

 

“H-harbinger,” Vilkas choked out, “Apologies, I… I rarely see you without your mask.”

 

The Harbinger quickly pulled Vilkas to an empty corner of the inn, her expression unreadable.

 

“Please don’t call me that here,” she murmured, “they don’t know that it’s me.”

 

Vilkas felt his eyes bug out of his head.

 

“What? Why would you want to come here in secret?”

 

Alba (that was her name, though Vilkas rarely used it or even thought it), avoided Vilkas’s steely gaze, shifting uncomfortable. Without her eyes to focus on, Vilkas’s gaze fell down to her outfit—a plain but attractive blue dress with a white undershirt. It felt strange and unnatural to see her in such feminine, unarmored clothing, but by far the most startling thing about the outfit was the large, gaudy necklace that rested on top of her chest.

 

“Ysmir’s beard, Harbinger, is that an _Amulet of Mara_ ? What could the Dragonborn and Harbinger of the Companions _possibly_ be doing in a tavern with an Amulet of Mara?” Vilkas hissed, now just as concerned as she that they not be overheard.

 

Anger glinted in the Harbinger’s eyes, and she glared up at Vilkas defiantly, having thrown off her embarrassment for the moment.

 

“I may not be your master, Vilkas, but neither are you mine. It’s not of your business why I am here. I might ask _you_ how you did not recognize your own Harbinger?”

 

Vilkas sputtered.

 

“I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen your face, Harbinger.”

 

Alba was practically never without her mask, something she said had once belonged to a Dragon Priest. It seemed odd to Vilkas that she should wear the faces of such monstrous beings, but he supposed she wouldn’t be the first to don a token of their defeated enemy’s power. Additionally, if the intention of the mask was to intimate, it was certainly effective.

 

She took it off to sleep and to bathe—that much Vilkas knew from his travels with her and her time in Jorrvaskr. She might also take it off to eat, but that was difficult to judge. She rarely ate in front of others, even at feasts. He’d spied her once at a celebration for Torvar’s birthday gingerly lift her mask away from her face to take a bite of a sweetroll, but she hadn’t fully removed the mask all night. It was strange, and certainly not endearing behavior to the rest of the Companions, but Alba had become Harbinger through the sheer undeniability of her strength and intelligence, and not at all because of her social skills. All of the Companions were learning to adapt to the new Harbinger and her eccentricities—it was a social group as well as a band of warriors, after all.

 

Alba flushed and crossed her arms across her chest self-consciously, perhaps realizing that this was the first time Vilkas had ever gotten a good look at her face.

 

“Well… well never mind that. I’m going home. You should, too.” she said.

 

“I was already on my way home.”

 

“Great. Then, great. Let’s just not talk about this ever again.”

 

Vilkas narrowed his eyes at Alba, then nodded. He did not verbally agree to never bring it up again, though, so he _could_ have been just agreeing to go home. The distinction was important in his mind.

 

By silent agreement, Vilkas left the hall first, and judging by the creaking in the hallway he heard from his room back home, she’d followed suit maybe ten minutes later.

 

The footsteps faded away in the direction of the Harbinger’s quarters, and Vilkas rolled over in his bed trying to get comfortable. He felt like he’d made some important discovery today, but he’d think more on it tomorrow. Right now he was too tired and his brain too foggy with mead to come to any conclusions. His conscious thoughts faded away to the image of cold, sharp eyes in a gentle, soft face.

 

* * *

 

Just as Vilkas had expected, Alba went about her day as if nothing had happened, donning her mask and hood once again and wandering about Jorrvaskr like a ghost. Vilkas tried to catch Alba’s eye at the breakfast table, but she steadfastly avoided him, though that could perhaps have been his imagination, considering how difficult it was to meet someone’s eyes through a mask.

 

Initially, Vilkas decided that going along with Alba’s strategy of avoidance was probably for the best. He didn’t know why she’d gone to the Bannered Mare last night, but it wasn’t really his business. However, as the day progressed Vilkas’s thoughts kept turning back to his mysterious Harbinger over and over again. It didn’t sit right with him that she would show up in a tavern, dressed like a common woman, wearing an Amulet of Mara. It was baffling. It was one thing to go to an inn in search of temporary comfort, but to go to a building full of near strangers looking for marriage? What exactly was she trying to do?

 

All day, through training, polishing armor, eating lunch, and sparring with the new bloods, Vilkas mulled it over. Vilkas really didn’t know what to make of it, but the more he thought about it the more certain he was that he needed some kind of explanation. Alba was the leader of the Companions. The way she behaved in public reflected on their association.

 

All of the Companions gathered for their evening meal, and while Torvar and Ria regaled the group with their latest exploits running a family of bears out of the Jarl’s summer hunting lodge, Vilkas watched the Harbinger. She sat back in her seat and passively enjoyed the lively atmosphere, and Vilkas couldn’t help but wonder what she might be thinking—what she might be planning.

 

The Harbinger retreated to her living quarters not far into the night, and soon afterwards Vilkas excused himself as well. He made his way to the Harbinger’s quarters and rapped twice on the heavy door, still unsure of exactly what he would say but certain that he needed to say _something_.

 

“Who is it?” the Harbinger’s voice sounded from the other side of the door.

 

“Vilkas.”

 

Vilkas heard shuffling and muffled movements, then the door opened.

 

“Harbinger,” Vilkas said, nodding as he walked into the room.

 

She shut the door behind them and turned towards him expectantly. Alba wasn’t wearing her mask, which surprised Vilkas at first, but then he realized she was wearing her nightshirt already. Even she wouldn’t wear the mask to bed.

 

“What’s on your mind?” Alba asked.

 

Vilkas stared at Alba for a long moment, almost forgetting what it was he’d come for. His eyes caught on the gold chain at Alba’s neck, which must lead to that same Amulet of Mara tucked under her shift.

 

“Harbinger, I’m… concerned about the reputation of the Companions,” he blurted out.

 

Alba’s eyebrows rose in confusion.

 

“...What? Has Torvar done something again?”

 

“No, it’s not that. ...I don’t think it’s wise for you to go to the Bannered Mare looking for a spouse,” Vilkas said, knowing somewhere deep inside that what he was saying was ridiculous, but stubbornly saying it anyway.

 

Alba’s expression shifted from confused to angry in an eyeblink.

 

“What did you say?” she asked sharply.

 

“Approaching strangers in a tavern like you are looking for marriage—it’s strange. What would the people of Whiterun say about the Companions if word got around?”

 

Alba’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Vilkas began to feel nervous. He knew perhaps better than anyone what she could do to someone who displeased her.

 

“ _You_ didn’t even recognize me, Vilkas. What makes you think anyone else in the tavern would have known it was me? And even if people did know it was me, I don’t see how my personal life could possibly be relevant to the Companions.”

 

Vilkas grimaced. He could already tell he was picking a losing fight, and at the end of the day he didn’t even really know why he’d picked it in the first place. His brain scrambled to sort itself out, to find some exit strategy that would satisfy them both.

 

“Forgive me, Harbinger, you are right… But Alba, what were you doing? I want to understand.”

 

Alba crossed her arms across her chest and hunched her shoulders, making herself as small as possible.

 

“Does it matter? Don’t people wear Amulets of Mara all the time? Why should it be so astonishing that I would as well?”

 

“The Amulet is usually used to signal your intentions after you’ve already come to know someone, after you’ve already courted, at least in some simple way,” Vilkas said, realizing that perhaps Alba’s Imperial heritage meant that she did not quite understand all of Skyrim’s customs.

 

As the words fell out of his mouth, it also occurred to him that perhaps Alba already _had_ met someone, already _had_ established a relationship with someone in that tavern to the point that they might expect her overtures. Somehow this thought made everything worse.

 

Alba grimaced, then lifted her chin defiantly.

 

“Well I didn’t know that. I still don’t see the harm.”

 

“The _harm_ is that you, the Harbinger of the Companions, could end up marrying some random milk-drinker you found in a bar!” Vilkas said, his voice raising.

 

“Well it’s not like I wanted to _marry_ anyone!”

 

“For Talos’ sake, if you didn’t want to marry anyone then why were you wearing the Amulet of Mara!?”

 

“Because I don’t want to die having never kissed a man!” Alba shouted.

 

Vilkas jerked away from Alba like he’d been slapped, completely taken aback. Initially his brain stuck on the second part of the exclamation: Alba had never kissed a man? How was that possible? How old _was_ she exactly? A couple of reactions to her statement almost made their way out of his stupid mouth, but thankfully he caught himself and kept his undoubtedly unwelcome opinions to himself. Then, his brain finally returned to the first part of the sentence. Something about the way she said, “I don’t want to die,” didn’t feel quite right, like she was referencing an immediate concern rather than exaggerating to emphasize her point.

 

“Do you… have reason to think your life in danger?” Vilkas asked carefully.

 

The fire in Alba’s eyes dimmed, and her gaze fell to the floor.  The tension that had filled the room dissipated, she sighed, and when she met Vilkas’s eyes again she was back to the business-like Harbinger.

 

“I actually wanted to talk to you about that. Take a seat,” she said, pulling a chair from the round table in the corner out for him.

 

An unsettling feeling of apprehension filled Vilkas’s belly as they sat across from each other. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that his Harbinger was frightened, and he didn’t want to imagine what might scare her.

 

“You know that I am Dragonborn, right?”

 

Vilkas nodded. They’d never really discussed it, but pretty much all of Whiterun knew. She’d eaten up a Dragon’s Soul in front of the entire city guard, after all. Still, the significance of Alba’s identity as Dragonborn wasn’t entirely clear to him. He knew the Dragonborn could use the thu’um, and he’d guessed the Dragonborn’s return must be related to the recent dragon attacks, but he still had only a vague idea of what the Dragonborn’s responsibilities might be.

 

“The Greybeards, they tell me that means I have to defeat Alduin, the World-Eater. In a few days I’m going to the Throat of the World to learn a shout that should help me defeat him, then I will confront him. I’m… not sure what will happen, but I have a feeling I may not survive.”

 

Vilkas’s brow furrowed.

 

“Why must it be you? How do you know what the Greybeards are telling you is true?” he asked.

 

Alba shook her head.

 

“I have no option but to trust them. They have studied these prophecies their entire lives, while I know next to nothing about my own destiny. And besides that… I feel that what they are saying is true. It is difficult to describe, but I know I must defeat Alduin.”

 

“Well then take a shield-brother or sister with you!” Vilkas said, growing agitated, “it is not the Companions’ way to face an enemy alone.”

 

“I appreciate that,” Alba said, gracing Vilkas with a genuine smile, “but this is something I have to do alone.”

 

It took a moment for Vilkas to formulate a response, distracted as he was by the first of Alba’s smiles he’d ever witnessed.

 

“Based on the legends, if you do not defeat Alduin our very world may end. Surely accepting assistance would be worth the blow to your pride if it would ensure victory,” he insisted.

 

Alba glared at him, and Vilkas winced. How did he always end up insulting her? And they said Farkas was the ice brain.

 

“I will be bringing Lydia with me, but I do not wish to involve the Companions. I do not want any of my shield-siblings to die fulfilling _my_ responsibilities.”

 

“I would go with you, even if it is your business and not the Companions,” Vilkas said.

 

“No! No, you most of all I would not bring with me.”

 

Vilkas flinched, hurt at her dismissal hitting him unexpectedly hard, but he refused to look away from her. Recognition lit Alba’s eyes, and her stony features softened.

 

“I meant to say that… if I fail I do not want to leave the Companions leaderless. This is why I wanted to talk with you before I go to High Hrothgar. If I do not return, I want you to be the next Harbinger.”

 

Vilkas’s grip on his knees tightened, and his chest constricted. The Companions did not have a master, and Vilkas knew it was not appropriate to desire the position of Harbinger, but he could not deny that it was something he’d always wanted. But not like this.

 

“You will return,” he said staunchly.

 

Alba smiled at him again. The second smile.

 

“I certainly intend to, but I need to plan for every possible outcome. I’m writing a letter naming you Harbinger, and it will be in my bedside table, should the need arise.”

 

Vilkas swallowed thickly and shifted in his seat.

 

“If… if the need arises, I would be honored to take up the mantle of Harbinger. But for now I want to assist the current Harbinger. Is there anything I, or any of the other Companions, can do to help you prepare?” he asked.

 

Alba shook her head.

 

“No. No, I will spend the next few days gathering my equipment, preparing supplies, and repairing anything that needs it, but I will have plenty of time to do that on my own. On Fredas I’ll set out for High Hrothgar.”

 

Alba’s voice betrayed a sadness that didn’t suit her warm, soft features, and Vilkas felt an urge to lighten the mood.

 

“No more trips to the Bannered Mare?” he asked with a weak laugh.

 

Alba chuckled, and shook her head. She grasped the chain around her neck and carefully pulled it over her head, holding it in front of her and gazing at it for a long moment before carelessly tossing it to the side.

 

“I think it’s pretty clear I didn’t know what I was doing. And now isn’t the time, anyway. Maybe it will never be the time for me,” she said with a shrug.

 

Alba rose to her feet before Vilkas found any words to respond with (probably for the best), and turned towards her bedroom.

 

“That will be all for now. Thank you for talking with me, Vilkas.”

 

“Of course, Harbinger.”

 

Vilkas stood respectfully and watched as Alba walked to her chambers and shut the door behind her, staring at the door a long while after it had closed. Eventually, a bawdy laugh from upstairs shook him from his stupor, and he turned to leave. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, his eyes fell to the Amulet of Mara that lay forgotten on the ground. Without really thinking about it, he stooped to pick the trinket up, stuffing it into his pocket before retiring to his own chambers.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Tirdas and Middas passed in eerie normality. Ria griped about her training, Aela obsessed over the glory of the hunt, and Torvar drank himself into Oblivion—all of them oblivious to their Harbinger’s impending doom. Vilkas had always been a solitary fellow, but for once he felt the urge to tell someone else, the urge to share the burden and concern. He mostly wanted to tell Farkas, as he and Farkas rarely kept anything from each other, but he knew that if Alba wasn’t telling anyone else, there must be a reason. He trusted her judgment as Harbinger.

 

Alba also seemed able to continue on with life as usual. Although it was clear she was preparing for a long journey, she gave no indication that her next quest would be particularly dangerous, no indication that she might never see her shield-brothers and sisters again. If she noticed Vilkas’s eyes following her throughout the week, it didn’t show.

 

It was maddening. Vilkas wanted to _ do  _ something. He should be able to  _ help _ his Harbinger, but there was nothing he could do. The need to act grew and grew throughout the week, and by the evening of Turdas all the built-up energy left Vilkas pacing up and down the main hallway in the living quarters. He knew Alba was already in the Harbinger’s quarters. He knew if he went to sleep now, she might be gone by the time he woke up. He didn’t know what he was going to do or say, but he wanted to talk to her at least one more time before she left.

 

Eventually, the nervous energy pent up inside Vilkas became too much, and he marched to the Harbinger’s door and barged right in. The Harbinger looked up from where she was crouched on the floor, strapping a heavy-laden knapsack closed. She was wearing her mask and hood, and was fully armored in her strange, pale elven armor. She rose to her feet upon Vilkas’s entrance.

 

“Vilkas? What is it?”

 

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” 

 

“Yes...” she said, tone rising in question.

 

“Do you still wish to kiss a man before you leave?”

 

Vilkas couldn’t see Alba’s expression through the mask, but he could almost feel every muscle in her body freeze up. A moment passed that felt like an eternity.

 

“...I can’t say it’s at the top of my list of priorities…” the Harbinger said cautiously.

 

“But you still wish it. If you could, I mean,” Vilkas said.

 

The Harbinger’s shoulders lost a small amount of their tension, and she sighed.

 

“I mean, yes, I suppose I still would like to know what a kiss feels like before I die.”

 

“Ok,” having not decided quite what he was going to say next even as he opened his mouth. “I can do it.”

 

Alba let out a strangled sound, as if she were choking on her own tongue.

 

“What?” she finally spat out.

 

“This is something you want. There is an obvious, efficient solution.”

 

“Vilkas, you don’t have to fall on your sword for me-”

 

“-It’s fine. I want to do something to help my Harbinger, and this would be simple. If you would prefer someone else I can speak with Farkas, or Torvar, or Athi-”

 

“-No!” she said, taking several hurried steps towards Vilkas and holding her hands out as if to hold him back, “No, I really don’t want anyone else to know about this. It’s bad enough that you know.”

 

“Then… I’ll be leaving then,” Vilkas said already cursing himself by each of the nine divines.

 

What had he been thinking? At first it had truly seemed like a… logical, cool-headed solution. He wanted to do something to help Alba, but there was almost nothing he could do. Then his brain had latched onto this idea, and it was actually within his ability to make happen. Why not offer?

 

_ Because _ , he told himself _ , no one on all of Tamriel would think this was a good idea, you insufferable dolt. _

 

Vilkas turned to leave, moving as quickly as his stiff armor would allow him, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

 

“Wait.”

 

Vilkas’s heart stopped, and he turned back towards the Harbinger, startled for a moment by how close the demonic mask appeared to his face.

 

“Yes?”

 

Alba sighed and released Vilkas’s shoulder, taking a step back and removing her mask. She let her hood fall back from her hair as well, and her brown hair fell to her shoulders, curling slightly. Dark circles made a home under her eyes and worry lines creased her olive skin. She looked so young, so careworn, and so, so tired.

 

“Ok. I’ll accept your help.”

 

An invisible weight lifted from Vilkas’s chest, but he didn’t let his relief show on his face. He moved further into the room, away from the door, and Alba followed suit.

 

“Alright then,” Vilkas said, eyeing Alba’s expectant face cautiously.

 

He stood awkwardly in front of Alba for a long moment, debating whether he should just swoop in an kiss her, or if there should be some sort of build up. He knew what he would do if he were trying to woo the girl, but that was the exact opposite of what he wanted to accomplish. After rapidly flipping through a handful of options, he decided on the only not-stupid one, nodding his head as he made up his mind. He’d treat this just like training. Teaching was something he enjoyed; something he was good at. This couldn’t be that different, right?

 

“Well, before we start I need to know what I am working with. You said you’ve never kissed a man. Do you mean you’ve never kissed at all, or you’ve never kissed passionately?”

 

Alba’s cheeks flushed at the question.

 

“I meant exactly what I said,” she muttered, eyes turned towards the corner of the room.

 

“Uh, ahem. OK, nothing wrong with that. How… old are you?”

 

Alba shut her eyes tightly, as if it pained her to answer

 

“I’ve seen thirty summers.”

 

Vilkas nodded his head, pleased that his estimate had been close.

 

“And what has so far prevented you?” he asked, forging ahead despite her obvious discomfort. In Vilkas’s experience, a student’s discomfort was only intensified if the teacher fell victim to it as well.

 

Alba swallowed thickly before looking up and meeting Vilkas’s eyes. Her brown eyes were plain in color, but they demanded his attention.

 

“I grew up in Northern Cyrodiil, in a small but prosperous town. My family was very wealthy, mostly due to their close connections to the Thalmor. My parents were also extremely conservative, and raised me in a very… proper and sheltered lifestyle. 

  
  


“My parents were killed during the Great War for their relations with the Thalmor, but I was spared, and after the Concordat was signed the Thalmor sent a steward to take care of me. That steward continued to raise me in that same constricting manner.”

 

This was the most Vilkas had ever heard about Alba’s life before she’d come to Skyrim, and it was nothing like he’d expected.

 

“How did you end up in Skyrim?”

 

A faraway look graced Alba’s features, and she grimaced.

 

“The steward—her name was Erdis—she watched over me until I was twenty years old, when she decided I would marry a man from another wealthy Thalmor-allied Imperial family. The Thalmor wanted to make sure the investment they put into my family didn’t go to waste, see. Anyway, the man they wanted me to marry was easily twenty years my senior and a boar, so I ran away.”

 

“And then nearly ten years later made your way to Skyrim?”

 

Alba nodded.

 

“Yes, I found work as a tutor for a family near the border, and worked there for several years. Eventually, one of the sons of the family… propositioned me. I refused him, he had me fired, and I had difficulty finding work after that. The family that had employed me had many connections, and told people not to hire me. That was when I decided to go to Skyrim.”

 

“You still had ten years of relative freedom. Did you not meet anyone you liked?”

 

“I met people I liked, but… My parents and Erdis taught me to never speak to men outside of very specific circumstances. That kind of training was difficult to overcome. And the longer I went without learning how to… to express interest in someone, the harder it felt like to start. Frankly speaking, I was afraid, and didn’t know what to do.”

 

“It’s difficult to imagine you afraid of anything,” Vilkas said, the image of her seamlessly decapitating a hagraven rising unbidden to his mind.

 

Alba smiled wryly.

 

“That’s because of this,”  she said, gesturing to the mask she still held in her hand.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Alba held the Dragon Priest mask out in front of her and studied it for a long moment.

 

“When I wear this, I am not Alba. I am the Dragonborn. That makes everything I have to do so much easier. That’s why I almost never take it off.”

 

Vilkas supposed that made sense. Back when he still used the beast blood on occasion, he’d found it easier to do certain things as a wolf than as a man. It had helped to almost think of his wolf as a separate being altogether.

 

“Why take it off now?” he asked.

 

Alba set the mask down on the table and fiddled nervously with her fingers.

 

“Alba still exists. Every once in a while it’s good to remember that.”

 

“Of course. Well, it’s never too late to learn something,” Vilkas said, deciding it was about time to get to the point. 

 

He took a step towards her, so only three handwidths separated them. Alba looked up at him, her eyes widening so he could almost see white around her entire iris. She stiffened noticeably, and Vilkas could see her throat working as she swallowed nervously. Vilkas placed both hands on her shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting manner, although his callused hands hadn’t really done much comforting in many years.

 

“No need to feel nervous,” he said quietly, feeling a little self-conscious himself at his soft words. “I’m going to lean forward and kiss you. You can put your hands on my chest, or my shoulders, or around my waist. Or you can just leave them at your side.”

 

Alba’s chin dipped in the slightest of nods, but she did not break eye contact. Vilkas moved his hands to cup Alba’s face, then leaned forward and closed his eyes. Alba’s piercing gaze made the whole experience feel heavy and awkward, but with his eyes closed he could pretend this was all normal. 

 

His nose came into contact with hers, and he tilted his head slightly, continuing forward until he felt her lips on his. Alba’s palms landed on Vilkas’s chest, though her nervously shaking hands felt unsteady in their placement. Her lips felt soft and welcoming, despite her clear uncertainty, and Vilkas allowed himself to enjoy the feeling for several seconds before pulling away.

 

Vilkas opened his eyes and moved his hands back to Alba’s shoulders. He looked down to judge her reaction, almost afraid of what he might find, but Alba seemed… normal. She had a slightly distant look in her eyes, but she didn’t seem displeased. She didn’t seem particularly pleased, either, which stung Vilkas’s pride a bit.

 

“Well, there you have it,” Vilkas said, feeling foolish.

 

“That was… nice,” Alba said distractedly, her hands still resting on Vilkas’s chest.

 

Vilkas’s eyebrow twitched, but he held himself back from saying anything in response. He stepped away from Alba, extricating himself from her arms, and took a deep breath.

 

“I know you need to sleep for your journey tomorrow,” he said, already backing towards the door.

 

“Of course. And… thank you Vilkas.” Alba said, reaching towards the table for her mask.

 

Vilkas frowned at the sight, not wanting her to go back to being the Dragonborn quite yet. He moved back into the room, resting a hand on Alba’s shoulder before she could don the mask again.

 

“Anything for a shield-sister. The Divines will be with you in your battle. You will succeed.”

 

Alba bobbed her head, perhaps to hide the mistiness in her eyes, and smiled in gratitude.

 

“I hope so. Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

Vilkas returned to his chambers, hoping fervently that that would not be the last time he saw his Harbinger.

 

* * *

 

The first day after Alba left, Vilkas waited until nighttime, then snuck out to the shrine of Talos with a small bag of coin. He’d picked a time when he knew Heimskr would be asleep, and few townsfolk would be about. Vilkas had never been a particularly devout person, but it seemed like if Talos was ever going to bless anyone, it would be the Dragonborn. He left the bag of coins at Talos’ feet and ducked his head for a moment, murmuring a short but fervent prayer under his breath. When he snuck back into his room and buried himself under his furs, he felt a bit foolish, but he also felt a bit more hopeful.

 

* * *

 

The second day after Alba left, Vilkas made Ria cry during a practice session. He also snapped so badly at Farkas that his thick-skinned brother demanded that Vilkas cancel all of his training sessions until he got ahold of himself.

 

* * *

 

On the third day, Vilkas apologized to Ria and Farkas. He also found the Amulet of Mara he’d picked up in the Harbinger’s quarters and started wearing it under his tunic, hoping that the goddess’ blessings might help calm him down. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed like it worked.

 

* * *

 

On the fourth day, Vilkas threw himself into his training to try and drive away the feelings of helplessness and despair that seemed to dog his every step. More than once his mind drifted to that damned letter he knew lay tucked in Alba’s end table, naming him the next Harbinger. For the first time since becoming pure, he wished for the beast blood, if only because transforming would keep his darker thoughts away. It would keep  _ any  _ human thoughts away.

 

* * *

 

On the fifth day, she came back, though Vilkas didn’t know until the sixth day. She came back in the middle of the night, and Vilkas didn’t see her until he came up to the main hall for breakfast. He knew that she’d probably just faced Alduin the World-Eater, but there she sat in her chair, as calm and collected as ever, inscrutable behind her mask.

 

Njada asked the Harbinger about her latest excursion, but the Dragonborn was typically vague and evasive. She didn’t acknowledge Vilkas in any way, and he tried to follow her lead, paying her no particular attention. It was difficult to do.

 

After breakfast, he ran into her on his way to train Ria outside. She silently nodded her head in greeting.

 

“Harbinger. You’ve returned,” he said.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Vilkas resisted the urge to purse his lips, unsatisfied as he was with their reunion. So this was how things were going to be, apparently. Dipping his head in acknowledgement, Vilkas turned away from the Harbinger and marched out of Jorrvaskr, determined not to let the frustration of his unmet expectations show.

 

The Harbinger and Vilkas more or less ignored each other for the next few days. Vilkas kept waiting for her to approach him—he’d thought that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to talk openly about her confrontation of Alduin in front of the others—but for weeks that never happened. Vilkas hardly spoke with the Harbinger at all until about a month after her return, when they went to clear an old fort of bandits for the Jarl. 

 

For half a day they walked in silence. The journey mirrored many similar quests before the Harbinger’s departure for High Hrothgar, but the heavy weight that filled the space between them was miles away from their previous companionship.

 

By sunset they were still a several-hour walk away from the fort. The Harbinger turned off the main road onto a dirt path that years of experience in his homeland told Vilkas led to a small hunting lodge. She didn’t say anything to Vilkas, and Vilkas followed after her wordlessly. The Dragonborn knocked loudly on the lodge door, and when no response was forthcoming, she let herself into the little shack.

 

Following the Harbinger’s example, Vilkas unrolled his sleeping pad onto the rough floor of the lodge and removed his armor, leaving him in his coarse undershirt and trousers. He dug through his knapsack for the cheese and bread he’d packed earlier, then sat on his bedroll to enjoy his food. The Harbinger didn’t eat—just sat on her own bedroll in her light armor and stared ahead of her. Maybe she was meditating. Maybe she was sleeping. It was hard to tell through the mask.

 

“Harbinger,” Vilkas asked, attempting to make his voice strong and authoritative.

 

The eerie mask slowly turned towards him, the umber eyes peeking out of the eyeslits the only evidence of humanity visible.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You returned from facing Alduin. So you defeated him?”

 

The mask turned to the travel bag she kept by her bedroll, and she rummaged around in it for a bit before answering.

 

“Yes.”

 

Triumph welled within Vilkas, followed rapidly by confusion. If his Harbinger's primary responsibility as Dragonborn had been dispensed with, why was she still acting like the weight of all of Tamriel rested on her shoulders?

 

“And your quest is now complete?”

 

“No.”

 

Vilkas's confusion only grew.

 

“I do not understand. If you defeated the World-Eater what more is there to do?”

 

“Don't concern yourself with it. It's no business of the Companions anyway.”

 

“But-”

 

“Vilkas, I'm going to sleep now.”

 

They fought through the bandit camp the next day in sullen but efficient silence. The trip back to Whiterun was painful, and with each step Vilkas asked himself what had led to this tension. 

 

It wasn’t as if he and the Harbinger had always been best friends. On the contrary, when she had first arrived at Jorrvaskr as a simple warrior, he had doubted her dedication and ability. He’d seen many an adventurer arrive at Jorrvaskr with visions of glory and mead—all the enthusiasm in the world for the laurels but no interest in the hard work required to earn them. Very soon after she moved into Jorrvaskr, however, it became abundantly apparent that the newest Companion was something special. Any remaining gruffness in Vilkas’s treatment of the new blood had been a result of his natural temper and not any personal judgment of her as an individual.

 

Over time grudging respect turned to well-earned devotion, and soon the Harbinger occupied the same level of significance as Farkas and Kodlack in his mind. He had gone to her  _ instead of  _ Farkas to make himself pure, for Hircine’s sake!  He didn’t think she fully realized how important she was to him, and to be honest Vilkas probably preferred it that way.

 

Then, the night before the Harbinger left for High Hrothgar happened, and Vilkas honestly did not know if it had changed nothing or everything. Vilkas had taken that night and put it into a steel safe in the back of his mind, refusing to touch it. He wouldn’t let himself think on the matter, because if that night had changed everything, he had no idea on Nirn what to do, and if it had meant nothing—well that was even worse.

 

As the cold marshes of the Hjaalmarch gave way to the more fertile tundra of Whiterun hold, Vilkas’s relentlessly logical mind turned the problem over and over in his head, and he concluded that two incidents had most likely precipitated the change in his and the Harbinger’s relationship: the Dragonborn’s confrontation with Alduin and the kiss they’d shared. Vilkas wasn’t narcissistic enough to think a simple kiss might weigh more heavily on the Harbinger’s mind than potentially world-ending conflict, so his best guess was that the first issue was likely the main problem, while the second issue was a complicating secondary concern.

 

This conclusion didn’t help much. Whatever had happened at the Throat of the World, the Harbinger seemed unwilling to talk about it. And as for the second issue, well, Vilkas wasn’t willing or able to parse that particular mystery. The lack of clear solutions meant that by the time they reached the outskirts of Whiterun, he was in a particularly foul mood.

 

Whatever the issue, Vilkas couldn’t help unless Alba  _ talked  _ to him. Trying to resolve a problem that was unspoken was like boxing with spirits, and Vilkas did  _ not  _ have the patience for that kind of nonsense. Warriors did not avoid their problems. They got drunk and fought it out, just as Ysgramor intended.

 

Just outside of the city walls, Vilkas stopped walking. It took the Harbinger a few moments to notice, but once she did she turned around and crossed her arms expectantly, waiting with a healthy distance between them.

 

“Harbinger. Why will you not speak with me?”

 

“Have I ever been talkative?”

 

“More so than this. We’ve been walking together for almost two fulls days, and you haven’t spoken more than three sentences to me.”

 

The Harbinger leaned heavily onto one hip and let out a deep sigh.

 

“I don’t know what you expect from me. I have nothing to talk about,” she said.

 

Vilkas scoffed.

 

“I never took you for a liar,” he said coldly.

 

Finally a small amount of emotion became visible in the Harbinger’s bearing, and her hands balled into tight fists. Hope rose in Vilkas’s chest and mingled with the anger already there. He was finally seeing bits of Alba shine through her ironclad defenses.

 

“I am being honest, Vilkas. I don’t have time to deal with your imaginary demons”

 

Vilkas rolled his eyes, but was undaunted. He could see the chinks in her armor forming.

 

“Alba,” he said, and she flinched at the name. “I understand if you've decided to shut me out that there's nothing I can do about it. But know that I don't like it. Alba talked to me. You told me yourself that sometimes it's good to remember that Alba exists.”

 

“I cannot afford to be Alba right now, ok?” she said, her voice low and intense. “I cannot afford her existence; cannot afford her fears, her joys, her pains, her friends, her insecurities. None of it.”

 

With that, the Harbinger turned on her heel and marched through the city gates. Vilkas could do nothing but follow after her.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

Vilkas rarely dreamed, but several weeks after his return to Jorrvaskr, he did. He saw Alba, but it wasn't Alba as she was. It was Alba as she should have been—all sun-kissed skin and easy smiles; eyes that didn't feel a thousand years old. She bestowed one of those magic smiles upon Vilkas, and his entire soul filled up to the brim. Vilkas wanted to go to her, to embrace her, or maybe just to bask in her presence, but for some reason he couldn't quite get close. Then, dream Alba's smile faded. Her skin fell grey and her eyes lost their light.

 

“I'm going to Sovngarde,” she said, her voice heavy with sorrow.

 

He wanted to ask her why—if she was ill, what was wrong, if anything could be done—but no words came out of his mouth. Then he was shaking, rocking back and forth and back and forth, some invisible force ruling his body.

 

“Vilkas!”

 

He felt hands on his arms shaking him awake, and he opened his eyes. Farkas’s warm, blunt face welcomed him back to the land of the conscious.

 

“Brother, the Jarl has requested additional guards at Dragonsreach. We need to go.”

 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Vilkas sat up in his bed.

 

“What?” he asked blearily. It couldn’t be more than a few hours until sunrise. “What’s going on at Dragonsreach?”

 

Farkas shrugged.

 

“I’m not sure, but Irileth said it was urgent.”

 

Vilkas dragged himself from his bed, grumbling all the way.

 

“Probably received some anonymous threat to the Jarl. Elf’s always been too paranoid.”

 

It wasn’t an anonymous threat, of course. Nobody of importance would tell Vilkas anything, but the gossip among the guards was that the Dragonborn had asked the Jarl for help imprisoning a dragon on the Great Porch. It sounded preposterous, but when Vilkas saw the giant stock-shaped beam already built into the porch for just such a purpose, Vilkas had to accede that perhaps the plan was not as far-fetched as he had first supposed.

 

The guards mingled and murmured amongst themselves while the Jarl and the Dragonborn took center stage on the porch, discussing their plans out of earshot of the faceless troops. A stab of hurt that the Harbinger hadn’t mentioned this audacious plan of hers to the Companions got past Vilkas’s defenses, but he shoved the hurt aside. She’d already made it clear she didn’t want the Companions to get mixed up in her work as the Dragonborn. Vilkas might disagree with that decision, but he couldn’t contest that it was her decision to make.

 

And a part of Vilkas grudgingly accepted that maybe the Harbinger was right to leave the Companions largely out of her dovahkiin-related activities. He, along with the rest of Skyrim, had heard about the truce she’d negotiated between the Stormcloaks and the Legion. That was exactly the kind of political maneuvering the Companions did not want and could not afford to be associated with. An organization like the Companions did not manage to stick around for thousands of years by getting involved with messy politics.

 

These thoughts occupied Vilkas’s mind as he, the Companions who’d answered the Jarl’s call, and the rest of the guard anxiously waited for the dragon-snaring trap to be sprung. Supposedly, the Harbinger was going to use her thu’um to call a dragon to them, then lure it into the porch where it could be pinned by the giant stock hanging in the rafters.

 

Vilkas hadn’t seen the Harbinger use the thu’um very often. She reserved it for the times that she really needed it, so he’d only witnessed her knock enemies to the ground with just her voice a handful of times. Each time had been memorable, though. Each time had reinforced to him that the Harbinger had abilities and skills that he could never possess, no matter his talent or training.

 

Eventually, the Harbinger and the Jarl moved to the edge of the porch and made their final preparations. It set Vilkas on edge—not just the idea that a deadly dragon might soon fly into the building, but also that he stood so far back from the Harbinger, on the upper decks with the soldiers. She stood out there—so exposed, so separated—and if something were to go wrong Vilkas would be too far away to help.

 

Jarl Balgruuf gave the word, and the Harbinger shouted into the cool pre-dawn air, drawing back momentarily before thrusting forward to emit a thu’um so loud and clear that Vilkas thought the Divines themselves must have heard it. Not for the first time, Vilkas stood in awe of the Dragonborn. He could not understand the words, but there was no doubt in his mind that the dragon would come. Not a soul alive could hear a voice like that and resist its call.

 

The dragon arrived shortly, swooping through the air and immediately knocking an unfortunate guard high above the ground and off into the distance, destined to meet an untimely demise in short order. Any loss of life was awful, but Vilkas couldn’t afford to be distracted by the poor man’s fate. He aimed his bow at the dragon, but its rapid movements made it difficult to land a hit. He waited for the dragon to hold its position, but that generally also meant the dragon was about to blast another section of guards with deadly fire.

 

The Harbinger shouted at the dragon again, and this shout seemed to force the massive red-brown beast to land on the edge of the porch. The Harbinger came very close to the dragon, baiting it and taunting it to keep its attention away from the other guards. She lured the dragon further back into the building, dancing out of the way of each of the dragon’s vicious, snapping bites just in time. All the while, Vilkas kept shooting arrows at the beast. He understood that the Harbinger wanted the dragon alive, but he’d be damned if he let his Harbinger die because he held back fighting a _dragon_.

 

His eyes flitted from the dragon to the stock, then back to the dragon again as he held his breath, waiting for the creature to fall into just the right position. The dragon was wiley, and seemed to sense the maneuvering that was going on, never quite moving as the Harbinger led him. Eventually, the Harbinger was forced to move quite close to the ancient beast, making herself too tasty a snack to resist, and the dragon darted forward to snap his deadly teeth at her. The Harbinger whirled out of the way, but the dragon’s teeth caught her arm, ripping a long gash through her armor.

 

“Now!” the Harbinger cried out in both pain and urgency, and the guards let the beam drop. It landed heavily on the dragon’s neck and wings, pinning it to the floor. The guards on the ground floor quickly worked to lock the stock into place, and the creature was well and truly captured.

 

Clutching tightly to her arm, the Harbinger cautiously approached the dragon. She and the dragon spoke, though the dragon spoke half in its own inscrutable language, and half in Cyrodilic. It was jarring to hear his own tongue approximated by the beast’s earth-shaking voice, but somehow it was done. Still, Vilkas found it difficult to understand the creature’s words. The Dragonborn seemed to have no such difficulty, and in surprisingly short order her interrogation was ended. She turned away from the beast and marched to the Jarl, thanking him for his assistance, and telling him he would not need to keep the beast there for too long. Then she left.

 

The guards milled about nervously for a while, understanding that the operation was over, but uncomfortable with the idea of simply leaving the dragon there unguarded. Eventually, Irileth found Vilkas and his shield-siblings and told them they were free to leave. She assured Vilkas that the guard would have double watches on the beast at all times, and he made it understood that the Companions would be willing to help if looking after the dragon ever became too much. Irileth nodded in gratitude, and Vilkas realized that that was the sort of thing he might do in the future if he truly were to become Harbinger. He dismissed the thought, though the pleasure of acting as spokesman stayed with him.

 

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Vilkas was exhausted from having woken up so early, and a bit overwhelmed at having participated in trapping an ancient monster in the Hold’s palace. How could one simply go back to regular training after a start to the day like that? But there was nothing else to do, so Vilkas went about his regular regimen in a fog. Everyone about the hall wanted to talk with the Harbinger, to hear about her conversation with the dragon, but the Dragonborn was nowhere to be found. There was nothing for it but to continue with life as usual.

 

That night, sleep remained elusive. Vilkas picked up _The Real of Barenziah_ from where he’d left it on the floor and sat up in his bed to read, hoping eventually he’d tire enough for sleep to find him. The history was in actuality a finely-packaged sordid melodrama, but those kinds of stories were the best for distracting.

 

Several paragraphs into his reading, a soft knock sounded from his door.

 

“Come in,” Vilkas said, not looking up from his book.

 

It was probably Farkas. When the beast blood had still run strong in both of them, Farkas had made a habit of coming to visit his brother on nights when he had trouble sleeping. The blood may have been cleansed since then, but the habit remained.

 

“I'm going to Sovngarde tomorrow.”

 

Vilkas started at the feminine voice, jumping a little as he fumbled to put his book away. He looked up and found the Harbinger standing in his doorway, dressed in a long night dress and wearing no mask. So startled was Vilkas by her appearance that it took a moment for the oddness of her words to register with him. An awful, shapeless dread seeped into his bloodstream as he realized that he had heard eerily similar words from her in his dream the night before.

 

“What? How? Why?”

 

Alba pursed her lips, but did not answer.

 

“May I come in?”

 

“O-of course.”

 

Vilkas jumped out of bed, taking a moment to right the furs so his living space didn’t look quite so messy. He decided the loose pants he slept in were good enough, and found a wrinkled grey tunic on the floor to cover his bare chest. For a moment he considered picking up the pile of books spilling out of his bookshelf, but decided against it. There was only so much he could do. He pulled his two chairs into the middle of the room and sat down, waiting as Alba took the seat across from him.

 

“Odahviing—the dragon I spoke with today—he told me that Alduin is in Sovngarde, regaining his strength by feasting on the souls of the fallen. He won't be truly defeated unless I kill him there, and the longer I wait the more powerful he becomes.”

 

Vilkas swallowed thickly, processing the new information as best he could.

 

“Will you be able to return?”

 

“I think so. I won't be dying, you see, just…visiting.”

 

She was going to Sovngarde? Sovngarde may be the best place to be if one was dead, but in Vilkas’s view it was much better to be alive. Vilkas’s hands clenched where they rested on his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers. A frantic energy seized hold of his heart, an urge to grab as much of Alba as he could—her time, her words, her essence—whatever he could get. She was a rare resource.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, his voice thick with tension.                                                           

 

“... Yes,” she said slowly. She leaned forward in her chair a bit, her features softening, and she looked about ten years younger than a moment before.

 

“I want you to know Alba."

 

Vilkas frowned at her and crossed his arms across his chest disapprovingly.

 

"You think I don't know you? Ysmir's beard, woman, you've dragged me halfway across Tamriel and back.”

 

She shook her head emphatically, her chestnut hair waving back and forth as she did so.

 

“You know the Dragonborn, the Harbinger, but you hardly know Alba. If I am unable to return from Sovngarde, I want someone to have really known me.”

 

Vilkas pursed his lips. He was a practical man, and all this talk of multiple identities inhabiting one person—well it was all a little too fanciful for his tastes. Still, this was what Alba wanted, and she was leaving in less than a day to risk her life for all of Tamriel. The least he could do was humor her.

 

"Whatever you want to talk about is fine with me, Alba. My time is yours," he said gruffly, reaching out and patting her firmly on her bandaged arm.

 

As soon as he'd done it he remembered why her arm had been bandaged in the first place, and he winced in sympathy.

 

“Did I hurt you? How is your arm?”

 

Alba smiled and shook her head ruefully.

 

“It’s fine. I had it healed hours ago.” She smacked her arm with her other hand playfully.

 

“See? Good as new.”

 

Vilkas cocked his head.

 

“Still. I find whenever I have a wound healed, it doesn’t feel quite right for a while. It’s almost as if the body doesn’t quite believe the wound is truly gone. I'd imagine it's even worse if the injury was made by dragon teeth.”

 

Alba shrugged.

 

"I don't know about that. Dragons are fearsome creatures, to be sure, but they're still just mortal beasts. I swear half of the deaths attributed to dragons in Skyrim were probably the result of someone being too overcome with fear to fight back."

 

Vilkas couldn't help but snort.

 

"You try to tell me that the real you isn't the Dragonborn and that people shouldn't be afraid of dragons in one breath?"

 

“I’m just saying there are much more frightening things out there. At least a dragon is straightforward. You can see it, you know how it will move, how it will attack. And you just have to keep hurting it until it dies.”

 

She was almost painfully matter-of-fact about the matter, bringing a smile to Vilkas’s face. She would have fit in among the company of Ysgramor, no doubt. He was glad that Kodlak had seen that in her when he had not.

 

“So,” Vilkas said, leaning back into his seat and making himself comfortable, “you told me that you want me to know Alba. What is there to know?”

 

Alba’s mouth twisted, her full lips distorting beneath her oddly-narrow nose.

 

“I… I don’t know. It feels strange to just talk about myself.”

 

Vilkas huffed, and forced himself to swallow his frustration. The last thing he wanted was to lose his temper with Alba on what was possibly her last night on Nirn. For not the first time, he envied his brother’s natural patience.

 

“Well, I can always tell you about the history of the Companions-”

 

“-Anything but that!” Alba interrupted desperately.

 

Vilkas couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

 

“Ok, I’ll spare you.”

 

A thoughtful look crossed Alba’s face, and she straightened the skirt of her nightdress out on her lap before speaking.

 

“Actually, that reminds me of something I was wondering about. I was trying to imagine what you thought of the beast blood when you first joined the Circle. Were you surprised? Did any part of you have reservations? Nords don’t seem to have a very positive view of werewolves.”

 

Vilkas shrugged.

 

“I honestly didn’t think much about it at the time.”

 

“Ha! I find that hard to believe, you’ve never met a problem you couldn’t think to death,” she said, mirth generating warm smile lines on her face. Vilkas couldn’t help the rueful smile that rose to his lips.

 

“I may be a bit too much in my head now, I’ll give you that. But I was given the beast blood when I was only sixteen. At the time I can’t say that I was thinking about much at all aside from becoming an official member of the only family I’ve ever known. That and women, of course,” he said with a chuckle.

 

Alba laughed awkwardly, then coughed into her fist, hiding her flushed cheeks behind her hand. It reminded Vilkas that Alba might not know how to react to even the tamest of bawdy humor.

 

“Did you ever doubt, before Kodlak talked to you about purification?” she asked, steadfastly attempting to move the conversation past Vilkas’s joke.

 

“Honestly, no. You have to understand, the Companions were— _are_ —my life. Considering that all of the men and women I most looked up to might have made themselves into… _monsters_ … That wasn’t something I was willing to let myself think. It took Kodlak’s dream of being denied entry into Sovngarde to challenge my beliefs.”

 

“That must have been very difficult.”

 

“Aye, it was. My first instinct was to reject everything Kodlak said. But Farkas, he seemed to agree with Kodlak, and I couldn’t ignore _both_ of them. I decided to give it more thought, study up on the history of the Companions. Eventually I came to understand that the Companions have changed a lot over the years. The blood wasn’t essential to their legacy.”

 

“That makes sense,” Alba said.

 

It felt good to tell someone about his struggles to give up the beast blood. No new members had joined the Circle in quite some time, so Vilkas had been unable to discuss his dilemma with anyone who hadn’t been directly—and emotionally—involved in the issue.

 

He looked up at Alba, who was nodding thoughtfully along to his story, and it occurred to him that he didn’t really know why she had accepted the beast blood. She had purified herself almost immediately after Kodlak—even before they’d let the tomb of Ysgramor the first time.

 

“Why did _you_ accept the blood? You got rid of it almost as soon as you could,” Vilkas asked, genuinely curious.

 

He had felt conflicted when Aela had admitted to him that she’d initiated Alba into the blood. A part of him had been angry with Aela for not accepting Kodlak’s wishes, and for potentially promising the young woman’s soul to a Daedric prince before she really knew what she was doing. Another part of him had been thrilled to see what the blood would look like in a warrior as fierce as Alba. It would be magnificent. In the end he had never even seen Alba transform.

 

“I'm not sure… It all happened very fast, and I regretted it almost immediately. But I was alone in the Underforge with Skjor and Aela, and they told me it was the only way to join the Circle. I wanted so much to be part of the Companions. Kodlak had told me that many members of the Companions did not have families of their own; that the Companions had become their family. I barely remember my parents, and Erdis… She was like a mother to me in many ways, but her first loyalty was always to the Dominion. I wanted so badly to be a part of something, and Aela and Skjor told me that's what I needed to do.”

 

“You never had to accept the blood to be a part of the Companions, even then,” Vilkas said.

 

The thought that someone who never wanted the blood in the first place had had it thrust upon them was deeply unsettling to him.

 

Alba shook her head sheepishly, her wide chin dipping down towards her chest.

 

“I know. I could have said no. I didn't really know how to say no back then. And frankly, Aela intimidated me.”

 

Vilkas chuckled to himself.

 

“Yes, she has that effect on people.”

 

“But you are right. I had a hard time saying no to people for a long time. Being Dragonborn… it means you have a lot of power to get things done, which also means a lot of people will ask you to do things for them. It took awhile for me to realize that learning when to say no was just as important as being able to say yes.”

 

There was something darker haunting Alba's practical words, something that caused Vilkas to lean forward in his seat. Normally he wouldn't pry in these kinds of situations, but… well she'd asked him to get to know her, hadn't she?

 

“What happened?” he asked grimly.

 

She didn't pretend she didn't know what he was talking about, which Vilkas appreciated, but it did take her a little while to answer. She looked down into her lap, then back up again.

 

“There was this little boy in Windhelm. He asked me to kill the old woman who runs the orphanage in Riften. She was a horrible woman. She beat the children, mistreated them, refused to let them be adopted by willing parents. I thought that she deserved to die, and the little boy… he was so desperate.”

 

Vilkas tensed, bracing himself for whatever might come next. He had his own feelings about honor and the proper way to live one’s life, but he was also aware that his domain of experience did not even begin to contain what it meant to be the Dragonborn. Whatever she told him, he would do his best to withhold judgment.

 

“So I killed her,” Alba continued. “The Dark Brotherhood came for me not long after that, said that I'd taken their contract. They told me I had to kill one of a group of hostages as payment, but I refused, and killed their leader. I ended up killing every single member of the Dark Brotherhood in their hideout in Falkreath.”

 

Alba wrapped her arms around her torso and hugged herself, shuddering softly before continuing.

 

“Everything I do seems to have these kinds of… long-lasting, life or death repercussions. Yet another reason why it's easier to separate myself from the Dragonborn. The Dragonborn can carry the responsibility, the guilt. I cannot.”

 

Vilkas frowned, unsure how to respond. He was shocked that Alba had had anything to do with assassinations, contrary as they were to the nature of the Companions. He also could sense the upset and unease coming over Alba, and he'd hoped her last evening before she left for Sovngarde wouldn't be weighed down by her duties and regrets.

 

“I… I am sorry. It sounds as if you made the best decision you could under the circumstances.”

 

Alba looked up from her lap and smiled a sad smile.

 

“I certainly hope so.”

 

Unacceptable. Vilkas might be the dour old man, but he'd be damned if he let his brooding attitude spread to others. He stood to his feet rapidly, startling Alba with the sudden movement.

 

“We need drinks. I'll be right back.”

 

Quickly, Vilkas walked across the hall to Farkas's room, where he knew a generous supply of ale and mead could be found. Farkas wasn’t there, so Vilkas helped himself to several bottles of his favorite brews, as well as two tankards. Farkas wouldn't be pleased, but Vilkas could fix that later.

 

He returned to his room and poured himself and Alba a full glass, taking a long pull from his tankard before looking at Alba again. She eyed her tankard a little dubiously before taking an experimental sip.

 

“Divines have mercy, you can't tell me you've never drank before either.”

 

“Of course I have,” Alba said defensively. “But not very much. And usually wine.”

 

“Alba. You live in a _mead hall_.”

 

“I know, but… Look, I can't help it that my social adjustment is strange. I basically grew up under house arrest.”

 

“That excuse worked ten years ago,” Vilkas said, taking another long drink from his tankard. “What about now, Alba, hmm?”

 

Alba flushed, then grit her teeth and brought her mug to her lips, tipping it back and guzzling until it was empty. Once she was done, she slammed the tankard onto Vilkas’s table and wiped her mouth triumphantly.

 

“There. I did it.”

 

“Do I have to make you do everything, Alba?” Vilkas said, a smirk rising to his lips. He loved saying her name. “Shor's bones, I'm probably still the only man you've ever kissed.”

 

Alba's eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“Only because my experience with you was so disappointing I gave up on men altogether.”

 

Vilkas couldn't help but bark out a sharp laugh at her quick retort, though in truth the words struck a little too close to his genuine concerns regarding the matter.

 

“You've got quite a tongue on you, lass. But I suspect you only feel that way because you haven't received a proper kissing yet.”

 

Vilkas took another healthy drink from his tankard, remembering as the liquid warmed his belly that Farkas liked to keep some stronger brews than Tilma served upstairs. If the Harbinger questioned his behavior later, he could always blame it on that.

 

“A proper kissing?” Alba asked, her heavy eyebrows knit together in confusion.

 

“Come here,” Vilkas said, getting to his feet and holding a hand out to her.

 

“Why?” she asked, eyeing his hand suspiciously.

 

“Because I refuse to allow you to go to Sovngarde not knowing the difference between a kiss you might give your mother and _kissing_ ”

 

Alba stood, a bit tentative, but lay her hand in his. Vilkas closed his fingers around her palm and pulled her to him, moving his other hand to her cheek and stopping mere inches from her face.

 

“A _proper kissing_ ,” he said, speaking softly and letting his eyes move lazily between her eyes and her lips, “starts at the same place as a kiss.”

 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Alba's, just as he had those weeks earlier, then moved just far enough away from her that their noses still brushed.

 

“But then it keeps going on...,” he kissed her again, letting his lips linger this time before putting a breath of space between them.

 

“And on” another kiss, “and on,” another kiss, “until it becomes something entirely different.”

 

Vilkas pressed his lips to Alba’s again, but this time he didn’t withdraw. He demonstrated how to merge each individual kiss into one extended experience, like combining several stances into one fluid attack; like ordering stanzas together to compose a poem. Alba returned the gesture, quickly adjusting to his cadence and moving with him.

 

Vilkas moved his hands to Alba’s back and pulled her closer to him, relishing the new information his nerves sent him about the texture of her clothes, the shape of her body, the parts of her that were firm and tough and the parts that were soft and yielding. In turn, Alba moved her hands to wrap around his neck in a way that Vilkas found intensely satisfying. She didn’t quite know what to do with them, so they mostly just hung around his shoulders, adding to the gravitational pull that drew him down to her. Even so, Vilkas felt a thrill run through his gut at just the idea of being held in Alba’s arms.

 

“Why are you smiling?” Alba asked between kisses, and Vilkas realized he was indeed smiling against her mouth at every opportunity.

 

“Because I am happy.”

 

As the words left his mouth, Vilkas recognized how true they were, and how surprising. Vilkas wasn’t exactly an unhappy person, but peace and joy were emotions that often eluded him. How strange it would be that this little woman—his Harbinger, the Dragonborn—would bring those gifts to him?

 

Unable to resist the pull of her any longer, Vilkas resumed his affections in earnest, pulling her even tighter to him, as if she might otherwise fade away. His breathing raced, and he maneuvered Alba over towards his bed, careful not to trip as their feet tangled with each other on the short journey. He sat on the bed and pulled Alba onto his lap, his lips finding hers again as soon as possible. Her hands started at his chest, but then moved up along his neck and into his hair and _by Ysmir that felt good_.

 

The intensity of Vilkas’s need for her spiked, and he acted with more urgency against her, his mouth moving faster, his hands reaching further. In one strange moment, that urgency reminded him of her imminent departure, and his desire for her safety merged with his physical attraction to her in a dangerous way. His kisses grew harder, more desperate, and his hands wandered past boundaries that he knew they shouldn’t.

 

After a moment of thoughtless passion, Vilkas noticed Alba’s difficulty keeping up; how her fluid, eager movements had grown halting and awkward, how her lithe body stiffened under his hands. He immediately retreated. He still held her close to him, perched on his lap, but his hands returned to her waist, and his kisses fell soft and light. He could almost taste the comfort and ease returning to Alba’s body, and felt ashamed that he’d let himself get carried away. Out of the blue, a blind moment of panic shot through him, and he questioned why he’d started doing this in the first place. Then another voice reminded him that she was leaving tomorrow, perhaps forever, so he didn’t much care if this was a mistake.

 

Alba pulled away from Vilkas, her expression calm and pleased.

 

“Have you still given up on men altogether?” Vilkas asked, his voice lower and rougher than usual.

 

The corner of Alba’s full mouth quirked upwards, and shook her head.

 

“No, I suppose not.”

 

They remained still for a moment, and Vilkas wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Alba’s hands still rested on his shoulders, but it was as if their earlier fire had burned through all of its fuel, and all that was left were dying embers. She’d be leaving now.

 

Alba slid off of Vilkas’s lap and got to her feet, then spoke with her back towards Vilkas.

 

“It’s getting late. I should sleep.”

 

“Aye.”

 

Vilkas rose as well and returned his chairs to their normal places in the corners of the room, fighting against the fear and panic he could sense haunting the periphery of his mind, waiting for a chance to strike. He didn’t want her to leave. But she must.

 

Alba headed for the door, and Vilkas followed her, wanting to see her out. She turned back to him before exiting.

 

“Thank you, Vilkas. Thank you for talking with me tonight.”

 

Vilkas brushed off the thanks.

 

“Whatever you need.”

 

Alba stood in the doorway and looked at him for a long moment, the air heavy between them. Goodbyes had never been either of their strong suits. Deciding to take initiative, Vilkas stepped to her and pulled her into a tight hug.

 

“Come back,” he said from somewhere behind her ear.

 

“I’ll try.”

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

She did come back, and the world didn’t end.

 

He heard it from Torvar, of all people, who’d heard it from a friend in the city guard, who’d heard it from Jarl Balgruuf. Less important than who he’d heard it from was who he _hadn’t_ heard it from. Word about town was that the Dragonborn had returned to Whiterun about two weeks after she’d left, but another week after her supposed return, and she still hadn’t darkened the doors of Jorrvaskr.

 

Ria told Vilkas during a training session that the Harbinger was staying at her house in the Plains District—a house which Vilkas hadn’t even known existed. Vilkas thought about trying to find the house (it wasn’t like Whiterun was that big), but an instinct to protect his pride held him back. If she didn’t want to talk to him, then that was that. She knew where he was.

 

It stung. The day Ria told him about the house in the Plains District, Vilkas took off the Amulet of Mara he’d been wearing ever since Alba had left for High Hrothgar. That felt even worse, though, so the next day he put the Amulet back on and tried not to think about it too much.

 

A fortnight after the Dragonborn’s return to Whiterun, Vilkas ran into Lydia in the market on his way back from a hunt. He didn’t know Lydia well, but he knew she was Alba’s housecarl. They exchanged pleasantries, both knowing the answers Vilkas really wanted.

 

“How is she doing?” he asked Lydia in front of Fralia Gray-Mane’s cart.

 

There was no question who he was talking about. Lydia sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

 

“She’s well enough, I suppose. She was injured pretty badly, and it took some doing to get her down from High Hrothgar in one piece, but Danica’s been helping with the healing.”

 

“Is she recovered?”

 

“More or less. The physical stuff is pretty much fine, but I think she’s… tired. She just wants to rest.”

 

A sinking feeling built in Vilkas’s stomach. It made sense that Alba wanted a break from the world that had demanded so much of her. He just hadn’t thought that he might be a part of that world she needed some distance from. His expression must have given his thoughts away, because Lydia’s expression turned pitying. How mortifying.

 

“She’ll come around. Just give her some time.”

 

“Aye. My thanks, Lydia.”

 

* * *

 

Eventually Alba did come back to Jorrvaskr. It was Ria’s birthday, and Ria had gone to visit Alba several times in her home to convince her to attend the feast Tilma was planning to mark the occasion. Vilkas didn’t quite believe she would really show up, but right as the party was getting into full swing, Alba walked through the front doors. She looked a bit pale, and a tad on the skinny side, but otherwise normal. The most surprising thing about her appearance was that she did not wear her mask.

 

“Hey! Look who decided to show her face!” Ria exclaimed from her seat at the end of the table. She stood and raised her mug high, carelessly letting some of the amber liquid slosh over the sides.

 

“Let’s welcome back our Harbinger, Companions!”

 

“To the Harbinger!” added Torvar.

 

All of the Companions raised their glasses and expressed their support and enthusiasm for Alba’s return, Vilkas included. If anyone noticed the slight tension held in his thick eyebrows, nobody said anything. The warpaint helped with that sort of thing.

 

Several people made comments of surprise or delight at seeing Alba’s face for the first time, but for whatever reason it didn’t seem as big a deal to them as Vilkas thought it would be. Alba took a seat across the long table from Vilkas, next to Ria, and the festivities continued.

 

“She's pretty, isn't she?” Farkas said about an hour later, when they were both further along in their cups.

 

“Hmm?” Vilkas asked, looking up from his drink for the first time in a while.

 

“Alba. She's pretty under her mask,” Farkas said, blunt as ever.

 

Vilkas nodded in agreement.

 

_I knew that before anyone else did._

 

The words almost came out of his mouth before he stuffed then back inside, unwilling to let his petty sense of entitlement show.

 

“She’s been gone for a while. I’m glad she’s back,” Farkas said.

 

“Me too,” Vilkas said, though a small part of him doubted his words. If this was what it would be like from now on, he’d almost rather he didn’t see her again. Almost.

 

* * *

 

After Ria’s birthday, Alba starting coming back to Jorrvaskr almost every day. She slipped easily back into the role of Harbinger, coordinating jobs that came to the Companions, representing them to the Jarl, and mentoring the newer members. Vilkas didn’t talk to her that first night at the feast, but he did talk to her the next day. She remained maskless, like the previous night, but she also didn’t talk to Vilkas about anything personal, didn’t share her confidences with him like she had before. It seemed now that death was no longer imminent, she didn’t feel the need to share that side of herself with him.

 

Vilkas told himself, over and over again, that that was fine. Alba was still a capable Harbinger and a supportive friend. He’d been there for her under extraordinary circumstances, but now those circumstances had ended. She didn’t need him in the way she’d needed him before. It was as simple as that.

 

Still Vilkas brooded. He started finding reasons to be outside of Jorrvaskr, especially when Alba was staying in the Harbinger’s quarters. When they did speak, he found himself cutting the conversations as short as possible, worried that the creeping anger he felt towards her might seep out and damage their relationship. Logically, he knew his avoidance was already damaging their relationship, but at least that was a slow corrosion instead of what might be an explosive event if he lost his temper. Alba noticed—of course she did—but she didn’t push him on it. She just started to get a sad look in her eyes whenever her gaze fell on him.

 

In the world outside of Vilkas’s inner turmoil, the war raged on. As the weeks passed, news of the Imperials’ and the Stormcloaks’ various victories and defeats moved through Whiterun like a brisk breeze. Jarl Barlgruuf, through a combination of Nord stubbornness and luck, managed to keep Whiterun largely unallied, but Vilkas knew that could not last forever.

 

Alba’s fame as Dragonborn had also spread throughout Skyrim, and it seemed every day a new emissary from either Windhelm or Solitude appeared at the steps of Jorrvaskr to seek audience with her, undoubtedly to plead the cases of their respective factions. Alba had never wanted anything to do with either side of the civil war, but as each day more and more blood was spilt, the pressure to pick a side was mounting. Vilkas could see it in the lines of her face. He worried privately that if things got any worse, Alba’s mask might come back on and never come off.

 

* * *

 

The sun was high in the sky, and sweat trickled down Vilkas’s back underneath his armor as he demonstrated an exercise for Ria meant to strengthen her horizontal swing. Ria attempted the maneuver for what felt like the millionth time that day, but the weight of her sword knocked her off balance and she tripped over her feet, cursing as she staggered to regain her footing.

  
“Again!” Vilkas barked, the heat of the unusually warm day adding to his impatience.

 

“No!” Ria said, throwing her greatsword on the ground. “I can barely lift the sword past my waist anymore. I need a break.”

 

Vilkas huffed and threw up his arms.

 

“Fine. But pick up that sword. Only a foolish snowback mistreats her equipment.”

 

Surprised to have got her way, Ria picked up the sword without further complaint and put it on a weapon rack by the tables, sitting down next to Vilkas on one of the more shaded benches. Vilkas took a sip of the water Tilma had left out for them and glared out over the practice field, the welcomed break only slightly easing his poor mood.

 

Ria took a long drink from her own cup, then set it down with a thud on the table. She always seemed to have so much energy whenever she _wasn’t_ training. Vilkas frowned.

 

“So…” she said, drawing the word out as she leaned towards Vilkas, “I heard some gossip about Alba. Want to hear?”

 

Vilkas’s frown deeped.

 

“No.”

 

“Come _on_ , why do you always have to be such a killjoy? I’m going to tell you anyway.”

 

Vilkas let out a sigh that could cause an avalanche, but some morbid, masochistic curiosity kept him seated.

 

“There’s this guy from Markarth who’s come to visit her once or twice in Whiterun. His name is Argis, and he’s really tall and big with _beautiful_ red hair—a proper Nord. And then there’s this other guy—some Imperial mage or other from Riften. I can’t remember his name, but he also has a nice face. If you ask me, Argis is the better catch, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

 

“I don’t think the Harbinger would approve of you spreading rumors about her personal life,” Vilkas said gruffly, forcing himself not to think through the faces of the visitors he’d seen pass through Whiterun in the past few months. Had either of these men been among them? What did it matter if he’d met either of them before?

 

“I don’t think she minds much, considering she’s the one who told me about them in the first place,” Ria said with a healthy roll of the eyes.

 

Vilkas rose to his feet abruptly.

 

“That’s enough for today. If we continue any longer you’ll be too sore tomorrow to do anything useful.”

 

“What?” Ria asked with surprise, but not displeasure.

 

“You heard me.”

 

Vilkas marched back into Jorrvaskr for a proper drink, but as he went his keen ears still picked up what Ria muttered under her breath.

 

“Jealousy is such an ugly thing.”

 

Vilkas nearly spun in place to confront Ria for her offhand comment, but he knew that would only make her case for her. His steps halted for a moment, but he forced himself to keep walking, taking long slow breaths as he made his way into the hall and poured himself a drink.

 

“Vilkas.”

 

The unexpected voice startled Vilkas, and he nearly dropped his tankard. He carefully set the tankard down and turned to meet Alba, forcing himself to look her in the eyes.

 

“Yes, Harbinger?”

 

“I need to speak with you. Meet me in my quarters?”

 

Vilkas nodded his assent, then moved to follow Alba into the living quarters. As he walked behind her, he did his best to empty his mind. He didn’t want Alba to get even a _whiff_ of his conversation with Ria earlier.

 

Alba settled into one of the chairs in the Harbinger’s quarters, and Vilkas sat across from her. It was the most stiff and awkward he’d felt in this room in years, and a tiny part of him resented Alba for making him feel that way in a place as important to his formative years as Kodlak’s old rooms. He let that thought slip away, too.

 

“I know you haven’t been happy with me lately,” Alba said. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap, but Vilkas could see the crease in her forehead deepening.

 

Vilkas started to form a response, but before the undoubtedly weak protest could even leave his mouth, Alba held up her hand to stop him.

 

“You don’t have to tell me why, but I know it’s true. I’m sure there are any number of things I’ve done wrong in the past few months. I’m aware of my many imperfections.”

 

Here she let a slight grimace form on her face.

 

“But regardless of all that, I’m asking you to… to please look past whatever it is that has you upset. I think it likely that I will become involved in this war one way or another, and I don’t think I can do it without you. I need you as an advisor, as an equal, and as a friend.”

 

Vilkas took in the earnest, open expression on Alba’s face, and realized for the first time how much his behavior these last months must have hurt her. He’d been selfish. It was true that she’d wounded his pride when she hadn’t come to see him after her return from Sovngarde, but friends were supposed to forgive each other these kinds of slights. He should have been especially understanding, considering what she had just gone through in order to save all of Tamriel.

 

“I am sorry, Alba. I let my own problems come between us. Of course I will do whatever I can to support you.”

 

Relief washed over Alba’s face, and she smiled her warm, genuine smile.

 

“I am glad to hear that. I ask right now in particular, because I have begun meeting with Jarl Balgruuf to plan how to safeguard Whiterun. I would like you to attend those meetings as well, if that’s alright.”

 

The request did give Vilkas pause, as it was coming dangerously close to breaking the Companions’ tradition of not becoming involved in politics. Still, Alba had said she was limiting the meetings to conversations regarding the protection of Whiterun. That was something Vilkas could do.

 

“Yes, I can attend the meetings with you.”

 

* * *

 

They began meeting every Sundas with Balgruuf, Irileth, and Proventus Avenicci. Their conversations sometimes veered towards alliances with one side of the war or another, but Vilkas always refocused the conversations on the defense of Whiterun. The more conversations they had, however, the more Vilkas realized that the Jarl, and probably Alba, could not remain neutral forever. The Companions as an organization might be able to stay out of it, but the pressure on Balgruuf and Alba was too great. Upon coming to this realization, Vilkas decided within himself that though the Companions would remain neutral, he would do whatever he could to help Alba as a friend, no matter the course she chose. She deserved that from him.

 

Vilkas also worked hard over this time period to repair his relationship with Alba, and it seemed to be working. Things didn’t return to how they had been before—neither the personal and intimate connection of the night before her journey to Sovngarde, nor the intense but distant devotion he’d held for her when she’d still worn her mask. Instead, they reached a new, happy medium. They were friends, true and honest friends, for probably the first time.

 

One night Vilkas returned home after a lengthy job tracking an escaped fugitive to find a dusty tome titled _Fall of the Snow Prince_ on his bed. He flipped curiously through the book, some skimming revealing it to be an account of a battle between the ancient Nords and the Snow Elves in Solstheim. Intrigued, Vilkas set the book down and crossed the hallway to Farkas’s room.

 

“Farkas, did you get me a book?”

 

Farkas looked up from the dagger he was sharpening as he sat on his bed and gave his brother a confused look.

 

“No. That was Alba.”

 

Alba must have found it when she and Farkas had gone to clear out an abandoned fort several days earlier, though where Alba would have found such an old and clearly valuable book amongst a rabble of bandits was beyond Vilkas. She somehow always seemed to attract rare oddities.

 

“Oh. ...Do you know why?”

 

Farkas shrugged.

 

“Because she knows you like books? She said this book mentioned Ysgramor, and you might like that.”

 

“Oh. My thanks, brother.”

 

Farkas grunted in response, and returned to his dagger. Vilkas wandered back to his room, his mind following his meandering feet. It felt good that Alba had thought to bring this book back for him, especially amidst all the turmoil vying for her attention. It made him want to do something for her in return, but it was hard to think what.

 

Vilkas read the book late into the night, fascinated by the descriptions of his ancestors and their conflict with the Snow Elves. The next day, he happened upon a caravan of Khajiit traders just outside of the city walls. Vilkas normally ignored them when they passed through Whiterun, but this time he approached the group, striking up a conversation with the one who seemed most likely to be selling something interesting.

 

He looked through the trader’s wares, considering the random assortment of armor, alchemical ingredients, and knick-knacks until something caught his eye. It was a writing set composed of several beautiful quills, a fine seal with sealing wax, and an inkwell of high-quality midnight-colored ink. Alba didn’t normally bother with this sort of thing, but Vilkas knew that she was well-educated and used to be a tutor. Perhaps it would be relaxing to indulge in a former interest?

 

He purchased the writing set from the Khajiit and returned to Jorrvaskr, immediately heading to Alba’s rooms to leave her the set before he could convince himself not to. He scrawled a quick note thanking her for the book and set it on top of the writing set on her desk, then beat a hasty retreat before anyone caught him in such a sentimental act.

 

The next day, he found a piece of fine parchment paper on his own desk, the paper inscribed with handwriting more elegant than he had ever seen before. For the first time it really hit Vilkas that Alba truly had lived the life of a wealthy noblewoman. Her life now seemed so far from that distant past.

 

_Dear Vilkas,_

 

_Thank you for your gift! Perhaps I shall start writing again, though I don’t know that I have anything to say worth reading. This is a beautiful set, and I shall cherish it._

 

_-Alba_

 

Vilkas couldn’t help but grin as he read the note. He folded it carefully and put it in the end table next to his bed, in the same drawer that he kept his journal and the letters he’d saved from Jergen.

 

* * *

 

Alba wasn’t the only friend Vilkas gained over those weeks. Throughout the course of their meetings with the Jarl, Vilkas developed a grudging respect and fond affection for the elf Irileth. He had never expected it, but her gruff ways and undying loyalty suited his own personality almost too well, rendering any resistance towards their eventual friendship futile.

 

One night, after a particularly long and gruelling debate between Avenicci and Balgruuf regarding allying more fully with the Empire, Vilkas proposed a friendly spar with Irileth to work off some of the tension. As the war intensified, the Companions had begun staying closer to Whiterun, both to avoid conflict and to be available to protect civilians if Whiterun was attacked, and it meant that Vilkas hadn’t been in a good fight in a while. Irileth grinned at the idea.

 

“Let’s see if the Companions live up to their reputation,” she said.

 

Proventus claimed no interest in a brawl, but both Balgruuf and Alba expressed curiosity at who would win, even making bets on their own champions.

 

“I fought beside Irileth for years, and I know of no fiercer warrior,” Balgruuf said as they made their way to the Great Porch.

 

“You haven’t seen Vilkas in battle, my Jarl. I’ve never seen man nor mer with greater battle spirit,” Alba countered.

 

Vilkas smirked to himself, trying not to show how much her praise pleased him.

 

They reached the porch and drew their weapons while Balgruuf laid out the rules of the spar.

 

“Let’s not maim anyone here. Soft blows—the first to make a hit to the torso wins.”

 

Vilkas grinned, the feeling of his sword hilt in his hands and a worthy opponent before him feeding his spirit.

 

“Begin.”

 

Irileth pounced, her steel shortsword flashing in the firelight, and Vilkas was barely able to lift his greatsword in time to block. She fought like the wind, her movements swift and terrible, and Vilkas hadn’t been challenged like this in some time. The challenge gave him energy, invigorating his movements and empowering his attacks, and each of her blows he returned in equal measure.

 

Irileth and Vilkas were quite evenly matched, and the fight went on for some time. It was bliss, to feel the rush of battle, to respect one’s opponent, to test one’s mettle. Even as Vilkas’s muscles grew tired and his steps slowed from exhaustion, his heart sang. He was enjoying the match so much that it took a moment for him to register the pain when a glancing blow off of one of his pauldrons slid off the metal guard and sank into his shoulder.

 

“Argh!”

 

He gasped as the pain finally translated in his brain and he staggered backwards.

 

“It looks like the match goes to Irileth,” Balgruuf said, the smug satisfaction as clear in his voice as if he had won the bout himself. “You owe me some coin, Dragonborn.”

 

“That was well-fought, Companion,” Irileth said, sheeting her sword and stretching her hand out to shake Vilkas’s. “I do not doubt that were we to spar again, I might not be the victor.”

 

Vilkas shook Irileth’s hand quickly, then pressed that same hand onto his shoulder, which was already beginning to ooze blood.

 

“Likewise,” he said, his voice tense with pain.

 

“Ok, this was fun and all, but Vilkas is clearly injured. Vilkas, let’s get you to Danica, then we can head home, alright?”

 

The wound hurt, but it wouldn’t be too bad after Danica saw to it, and Vilkas didn’t really mind losing. One often learned more from a loss than a victory, after all, and the fight had been close. Still, he didn’t much like losing either battles or blood in front of Alba. He gritted his teeth and tried to downplay the gash.

 

“I’ll be fine. Irileth, thank you for a good fight. We should spar again some time.”

 

He nodded his respect to Irileth, then turned to leave, hand still gripping his wounded shoulder. Alba promised to pay Balgruuf for the bet later, then accompanied Vilkas out of Dragonsreach and straight to the Temple of Kynareth, where Danica predictably tsk tsked at the foolhardy Companions before helping Vilkas out of his armor to take a look at his injury. She was halfway through getting his undershirt over his head when Vilkas remembered that he was still wearing the Amulet of Mara under his clothes. His muscles stiffened, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

 

Danica didn’t mention the Amulet, though she did maneuver the chain around his head and set the amulet on top of his undershirt so it wouldn’t be in the way. She poured water on the wound, then rubbed a stinging salve on it before wrapping it up. As Danica worked, Vilkas’s eyes found Alba’s. She returned his gaze with an intense, searching look, her brow furrowed in consternation. Vilkas looked away.

 

Danica finished dressing the wound, then performed a healing spell on Vilkas that took any residual pain away.

 

“That should do it. You should be fine by tomorrow, but try not to let these kinds of things happen,” she chided. “Healing magic can only do so much. The body knows when it’s being mistreated, you know.”

 

Vilkas made the necessary penitent comments as he re-dressed himself, and he and Alba walked under the boughs of the Gildergreen and back to Jorrvaskr. Vilkas said goodnight to her when he reached his quarters, and she continued on to her own, with neither party commenting on either Vilkas’s injury or his choice in jewelry.

 

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTES: I was going to post this chapter tomorrow, but I thought it might be better to end a story on a Sunday rather than a Monday :) Had a ton of fun writing this story, and I hope you all enjoyed it. Thank you!

* * *

Vilkas gave himself a day. He was allowed to avoid Alba for a day, then he needed to get back into the swing of things and get over his embarrassment.

 

Vilkas woke early and told Ria and Torvar he’d be cancelling their training sessions for the day, then headed to Farkas’s room and shook his brother awake.

 

“Vilkas?” Farkas said, rolling over and blinking up at his brother in the dim light. “What is it?”

 

“Farkas. Let’s go hunting in Falkreath. It’s been too long.”

 

Farkas nodded and got out of bed, and in less than half an hour they were on the road.

 

“Did Alba say we could go hunting? I thought we were staying closer to Whiterun because of the fighting,” Farkas asked as they passed Pelagia farm.

 

“She never prohibited us from leaving. And besides, Skyrim has always been dangerous. That’s never stopped us in the past.”

 

Farkas just shrugged and kept walking. Vilkas knew Farkas was as happy as he was to get out of Whiterun for a bit, and it had been awhile since they’d traveled together. Today would be a nice day.

 

By late afternoon, they’d caught a goat, two rabbits, and a deer. They lugged their hauls to a shack a local hunter friend of Farkas’s had set up nearby and set about gutting and skinning the animals.

 

“Vilkas?” Farkas said as he worked on a goat.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You like the Harbinger, right?”

 

Vilkas nodded absentmindedly, focused as he was on his own carcass.

 

“Of course. She’s an excellent warrior and a worthy leader.”

 

“So why don’t you marry her?”

 

Vilkas's hand slipped, and he nearly stabbed himself with the knife he was using to dress the deer.

 

“What? Where did you get that idea, Farkas?”

 

“I’m not blind, brother. You like her. She likes you. You’ve been wearing that Amulet of Mara for months now.”

 

“You can see that?” Vilkas asked, horrified.

 

Farkas shrugged.

 

“Well, maybe other people haven’t seen it, but I’ve seen you undressed plenty of times. Can’t hide it then.”

 

Vilkas felt his face grow warm, and he sputtered a bit in his response.

 

“I might care for the Harbinger, but that doesn’t mean we should get married. I doubt she would be interested in me, regardless.”

 

“I think she’s interested,” Farkas said, levelling that honest, unavoidable gaze of his at Vilkas.

 

“If she was interested in me, then why would she be seeing random men from Riften or Markarth?” Vilkas said, starting to get frustrated.

 

“Because you weren’t talking to her. She still always looked at you. I noticed.”

 

Vilkas finished gutting the deer with perhaps more force than was necessary, then turned to his brother, blood still dripping from his hands.

 

“Look Farkas, I… I _want_ things to be like that. Probably more than I’d like to admit. But I don’t think it’s going to work out. Don’t get your hopes up, alright?”

 

Farkas’s steady gaze never left Vilkas’s, and Vilkas could see the doubt in his brother’s eyes.

 

“If you say so, brother.”

 

They finished dressing their catch, then headed back to Whiterun in the dying daylight. Talk turned to the war—which of their childhood friends had joined which faction, and which of their childhood friends had already met an early demise. All the while, Vilkas thought back on what Farkas had said—that Alba was interested in him. Farkas might not be the smartest man in the world, but he was a good judge of people. If Farkas was convinced that Alba wanted Vilkas, well… Vilkas couldn’t help but latch onto that.

 

They returned home, setting the pelts by the tanning rack and giving the meat to Tilma in the kitchen, and took a bit of time to clean up. Farkas was tired, and decided to call it a night, but Vilkas felt plagued by pent up energy. He washed his face and tidied his hair, then changed into some of the only casual clothes he owned and headed for the Bannered Mare.

 

Hulda got him a drink, and he took a seat in his favorite corner of the tavern and stewed. A couple of drinks in and Vilkas was cursing everything under his breath. He cursed the war for making an already hard life harder, he cursed the Dragon Mask for hiding away such a beautiful person, he cursed Farkas for seeing right through him, and he cursed himself for being such a coward. He would have kept finding things to curse at if Alba hadn’t stepped through the doors to the Bannered Mare and marched right back to his bitter corner, interrupting his bitter thoughts.

 

“Vilkas. We need to talk.”

 

Vilkas looked up at Alba from under his heavy brows and snorted, taking another drink from his tankard.

 

“Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something.”

 

Alba’s eyes narrowed.

 

“I can see that.”

 

She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, nearly causing him to spill his drink all over Hulda’s floor. Vilkas managed to set the drink down, then found himself being tugged through a doorway at the end of room. Alba shut the door of the thankfully-unoccupied guest room behind them, and shoved him bodily up against it.

 

“I’ve been looking for you all day. Where have you been?”

 

Vilkas glared at her. He glared at her warm brown eyes that were tinged with hints of green. He glared at her chestnut hair, the plaits that wound over each ear highlighted by shades of auburn donated by some distant Nord ancestor. He glared at her soft reddish lips, twisted as they were into a frown of displeasure. Even through all the anger and the alcohol, she was beautiful.

 

“I went hunting with Farkas. Is that not allowed anymore, master?”

 

The fire in Alba’s eyes dimmed a bit at Vilkas’s spitting accusation.

 

“N-no, of course you can go hunting. But it’s good to let at least one shield-sibling know where you are going, just in case.”

 

The sudden decrease in Alba’s ire doused Vilkas’s own anger as well. Vilkas crossed his arms across his chest and looked at her, feeling suddenly very tired.

 

“Did you really come here to lecture me about telling someone where I am going when I leave for a hunt?”

 

Alba shook her head.

 

“No.”

 

“Well then what is it?”

 

“I…Well I...” Alba trailed off uncertainly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

 

Vilkas was about ready to stalk off and tell her to come find him when she knew what she wanted, but before he had a chance Alba finally found her words.

 

“I'm worried!” She blurted out.

 

“Worried about what?”

 

Vilkas could see some kind of decision being made in Alba’s expression, and her uncertainty melted away. She raised her gaze from her feet to Vilkas’s face, and the mischievous glimmer in her eyes made him nervous.

 

“Actually, I’m concerned about the reputation of the Companions,” she said, smiling like she knew a secret he didn’t.

 

“What?” Vilkas asked feeling like Alba had boxed up all of her previous confusion and handed it to him.

 

“Well, what would the people of Whiterun think if they knew a member of the Circle was frequenting taverns, wearing an Amulet of Mara?”

 

Alba’s hands moved to Vilkas’s neck, and her fingers slipped under the fabric of his shirt to grasp at the chain that hung there. She gently pulled the pendant in question out from under his shirt, and Vilkas flushed from his neck to the roots of his hair.

 

“This is my amulet, right? How long have you been wearing it?”

 

Vilkas wanted to lie. He wanted so much to tell her that it was some token from his long lost mother, or that he'd only put it on yesterday as a whim, or whatever excuse would keep her from assigning great significance to it. But he couldn't.

 

“It's yours. I started wearing it soon after you left for High Hrothgar.”

 

“Why?”

 

Vilkas steeled himself to answer, looking her squarely in the eye like she was challenging him to a death match for his honor.

 

“I think you know why.”

 

Alba looked back down at the pendant, her fingers tracing the twisting patterns for a moment before letting her hand close around it. She looked up at him through her dark Imperial lashes.

 

“Interested in me, are you?” Alba asked.

 

Vilkas was completely transfixed.

 

Something about the look in Alba’s eyes made Vilkas feel alive and filled with reckless courage. He forgot about the weeks he had waited for Alba to talk to him after Sovngarde. He forgot about the beefy man from Markarth, forgot about the intriguing mage from Riften. It seemed like she wanted him now, and what else mattered? Alba had a way of erasing all of Vilkas’s grievances and frustrations, and all he saw was a future with her.

 

“I am. I’d be glad to stand by your side until the Divines take us, i...if you’ll have me.”

 

Alba’s face broke into a beaming smile brighter than the midday sun, and it gave Vilkas life. She pulled on the pendant gently, drawing Vilkas down to her, and kissed him with all the strength of joy Vilkas had ever felt before. After a long moment, she pulled away just far enough to speak.

 

“I will. Together, then,” she said.

 

“Together.”

 

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again, feeling like nothing in the world could take away how happy he felt right then. Alba returned the kiss enthusiastically, pushing him into the closed door with her body and running her hands up the length of his torso. It felt heavenly, but there was so much more she could be feeling, if she only knew. Gently, he pulled Alba’s hands from his shoulders and turned her around, swapping places so her back was now to the door.

 

Alba looked up at him, her expression an interesting cocktail of vulnerability, excitement, and defiance. Vilkas’s right lip curled upwards in satisfaction, and he dipped his head down to Alba’s neck, finding the soft skin just beneath her jaw with his lips and teeth. Alba sucked in a sharp breath and her fingers dug into the fabric of Vilkas’s shirt at his shoulders, her reaction egging him onwards. He pushed her further into the door, wanting as much of him to be touching as much of her as possible, and collected the tiny gasps Alba emitted like nuggets of gold.

 

After more time had passed than was probably wise, the unmistakable sound of Mikael belting out the words to Ragnar the Red jolted Vilkas back to reality, and he remembered that they were still in the Bannered Mare, only steps away from the general public. He pulled away, though the dazed and dreamy look on Alba’s face as she leaned against the wooden door almost drew him back in.

 

“We should… return to Jorrvaskr,” he said, breathing heavily. “I don’t want… Hulda to kick us out.”

 

Alba nodded a bit absentmindedly and took a step away from the door, smoothing out her dress and righting her hair. They left the room together, steadfastly ignoring the curious looks and suggestive eyebrows pointed in their direction from the other patrons of the tavern. If pressed to recall the night later, Vilkas wouldn’t have been able to remember anything about the walk back to Jorrvaskr outside of the utter and complete sense of well-being that seemed to follow them like a mage’s ward. When they got back to Jorrvaskr, Alba followed Vilkas to his room.

 

“You wouldn’t rather go to your quarters?” Vilkas asked.

 

Alba shook her head.

 

“No. I like your room. It feels more… homey.”

 

Alba made her way carefully into Vilkas’s room, looking not entirely certain what to do with herself. Vilkas was already feeling a bit giddy, and he laughed at her consternation.

 

“Love, we are going to be married. You can sit wherever you want. What’s mine is yours.”

 

Alba swallowed thickly, and her shoulders tensed. She looked Vilkas squarely in the face, a serious expression on her face.

 

“Truly? You want to marry me?” she asked, and Vilkas could tell that regardless of what had happened earlier, Alba needed clear and explicit assurances. Whatever he said next was important.

 

“Of course. Alba, I love you and I want to marry you.”

 

All tension bled from Alba’s face, and Vilkas realized that that was how he always wanted to make her feel. Safe, confident, loved.

 

Alba chuckled at herself, and eventually chose to sit on his bed. Vilkas sat next to her.

 

“I’m sorry, I just… want everything to be clear between us,” she said.

 

“I understand. Things have changed so much since this morning, it’s almost hard to believe.”

 

Alba turned to Vilkas and hugged him tightly to her.

 

“When you disappeared this morning, and I didn’t see you all day… I was so worried. I thought maybe I’d misunderstood, or upset you. I thought you might stop talking to me again.”

 

“I shouldn’t have avoided you, Alba. My apologies. After you came back from Sovngarde… Well I thought there might be something between us, but you didn’t come to see me for so long. And once you finally did come back to Jorrvaskr, you treated me the same as anyone else. I must admit it hurt my pride, so I made myself scarce.”

 

Alba squeezed her arms around Vilkas’s waist and talked into his shoulder.

 

“I owe you an apology as well.”she said. “You meant so much to me, but after Alduin, I was so overwhelmed. I needed time to recover, and I didn’t think I could handle trying to figure you out. You know… you know I don’t know much about men. I wasn’t sure how much what happened meant to you, and I was scared to find out.”

 

“What made you change your mind?”

 

Alba smiled and nestled her head further into Vilkas’s chest.

 

“You’ve been such a good friend to me these past months. I knew that you deserve my trust, but I was worried that after all that had happened it was too late for me. Then I saw you wearing my Amulet of Mara yesterday, and that made me a little more confident in your feelings for me.”

 

“You have every reason to feel confident in my feelings for you, love,” Vilkas said, leaning back onto his bed and pulling Alba down with him. “When do you want to go to Riften?”

 

Alba curled up against Vilkas and lay her head on his chest. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath, the picture of contentment.

 

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow, even,” she said.

 

“You don’t want to wait until after the war? The journey could be dangerous.”

 

Alba shook her head, and Vilkas could feel the texture of her hair shifting against his shirt.

 

“No. Who knows when the conflict will end? We live in uncertain times, and I don’t want to die having never made you mine.”

 

“Aye. I can’t argue with that.”

 

Alba’s breathing slowed, and nestled further into Vilkas’s side, finding a more comfortable position. Lying in bed with the woman he loved for the first time, thoughts of taking their physical relationship further were inevitable. Despite the significant temptation, Vilkas ruled out the idea quickly. He didn’t want to do anything that might risk Alba’s blissful sense of contentedness, and he knew she might still view the physical aspects of their relationships with some trepidation. There would be plenty of time for that later. And besides, there was something honorable in the idea of pledging complete fidelity to each other before becoming one physically that appealed to Vilkas. He could wait.

 

Still, Alba had seemed a bit more confident in what she was doing when they had kissed in the inn. Vilkas stroked Alba’s hair thoughtfully.

 

“Alba?”

 

“Hmm?” Alba responded, eyes still closed.

 

“Did you have something going with that man from Riften? Or the Nord from Markarth?”

 

Alba opened her eyes and looked up at Vilkas, her expression sheepish.

 

“Well… It wasn’t serious, but I did spend some time with Argis and Marcurio.”

 

Vilkas fought the urge to frown at the names.

 

“I thought it seemed like they had, ahem, taught you a thing or two.”

 

Alba flushed and shoved Vilkas lightly, though she remained well within his hold.

 

“Nothing so scandalous as that! It was very innocent! I…” she grew flustered. “I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t falling in love with you just because you were the only man I had ever kissed!”

 

Vilkas chuckled, and he loved the way his laughter resonated with her body.

 

“And are you sure now?”

 

Alba closed her eyes again, letting out a massive sigh, and pulled herself closer to Vilkas.

 

“Yes, I am very sure.”

 

* * *

 

They left for Riften the next day, and were married the day after that. Maramal performed the ceremony, and Lydia, Danica, Fralia Gray-mane, and several of Alba’s Riften friends, along with almost all of the Companions, were in attendance. The ceremony was short and sweet, just like Vilkas liked it.

 

Vilkas hadn’t thought much about marriage before, but now that he was Alba’s husband the whole concept felt like a revelation. From the moment they said “now and forever,” he knew that any burden, any sorrow, any joy he now encountered was both his and Alba’s together. He would never be alone again. He felt somehow more anchored, more secure. He felt like no matter what happened with the war, with the dragons, with the aedra or the daedra, he would have a safe haven on Nirn. He would have a place—a person—to call home.

 

They accepted the well-wishes of their friends in the Temple, then purchased celebratory drinks at the Bee and Barb as a thanks to all those who had made the journey to see them. The evening was a riotous, joyful break from the shadows of war, and Vilkas was reminded of how lucky an orphan boy like him was to have such a family. Farkas clapped Vilkas on the shoulder and congratulated him for finally getting his head out of his ass, and Vilkas had to admit that in this, as in many other things, his brother had had the right of it.

 

The party continued into the wee hours of the morning, but Vilkas and Alba retired to Alba’s home in Riften long before then. Their first night together as husband and wife didn’t go quite as smoothly as Vilkas would have liked, but it was as sweet as it was clumsy. When Vilkas woke the next morning with Alba’s tan, scarred arm draped across his bare chest, he felt a surge of affection for her greater than he had ever felt before, and he knew he had just made the best decision of his life.

 

* * *

 

When they returned to Whiterun, they had only a day to sort out their living situation before they needed to get back to preparing Whiterun for the war. After a brief, somewhat heated argument, they decided to move the majority of their things to Alba’s house in the Plains District, but to leave enough at Jorrvaskr that they could stay there whenever they pleased. This decision precipitated a flurry of activity as Farkas, Vilkas, Lydia, and Alba tried to move almost all of the newlyweds’ belongings from Jorrvaskr to Breezehome in a single afternoon.

 

By late afternoon, Vilkas sat on the floor of the upstairs bedroom next to Alba, folding clothing and deciding what things to put where. About halfway through the arduous process, Alba reached into a crate of her unsorted belongings and pulled out her Dragon Priest mask.

 

“Hey, look at this old thing! Remember when I used to be the Dragonborn?” she laughed, holding it up to Vilkas.

 

Vilkas truthfully didn’t much like the sight of the mask, but he nodded agreeably. He resumed folding his shirts for a bit, but something about Alba’s words bothered him. A few shirts later, he set the clothing down and turned to Alba, who’d set the mask down on the floor next to her.

 

“You know, I never much liked when you talked like that—like the Dragonborn and you were separate people. I understand if looking at it that way helped you do what you needed to do, but the truth was that it was all you. Purifying Kodlak of the beast blood, mastering the thu'um, saving Skyrim from the World-Eater—it was Alba who did that.”

 

Vilkas grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed, hoping she would take the words with the respect and admiration he intended. Alba looked up at him and squeezed his hand back, then released it to pick up the mask.

 

Alba held the mask out in front of her, and she stared into its empty eyes for a long time before speaking.

 

“This mask is called Krosis. In the language of the dragons, it means ‘sorrow.’ ...The war is coming, and it brings with it pain, suffering, and sorrow. Even so, I don't think I need this any more.”

 

She unlocked the chest at the front of her bed and set the mask down inside, letting the chest fall shut with a heavy thud when she was done. She stood up and reached a hand down to Vilkas to help him up off the floor.

 

“We should go. Jarl Balgruuf has had news of the Stormcloaks’ latest movements. Together?”

 

Vilkas took her hand and grinned up at her.

 

“Together.”

 

_The End_

 

* * *

 


End file.
